


Temple

by icantwritegood



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Attempted Murder, Blood and Violence, Infatuation, Murder, Obsession, Redemption Arc for Tinsley!, Ricky is a detective with no impulse control, Tinsley's a lawyer and although lawyers are evil anyway he's a particularly evil one, also deals with the subject of child abuse - not explicit but evident in Tinsley's cases, bit of a spiral for Ricky, but maybe... they will change??, criminal Tinsley, detective Ricky, it's not the focus of the story but it's important for the plot, reverse au, sometimes love at first sight isn't all it's cut out to be, they meet halfway, this is NOT going to be like the good lie, tinsley and ricky are not good for each other in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantwritegood/pseuds/icantwritegood
Summary: A strange but unmistakable pattern in the cases of a prominent lawyer attracts the curiosity of a local detective with a penchant for going over the top. He entangles himself in a web of unclear relationships and non-disclosure agreements involving a high-ranking judge, a well-loved philanthropist, an ex-felon art connoisseur, a therapist (for hire), an elusive accountant, and the detective's own mother.As Ricky sinks deeper and deeper into the lies, he begins to feel as if he's falling right into a certain lawyer's hands.
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley
Comments: 58
Kudos: 147





	1. The Courthouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and as per usual my fic was inspired by a song
> 
> https://youtu.be/6EA-MIYY1bg
> 
> vibes

The courthouse was an imposing structure. A wide set of stone steps sat between two thick walls that jutted out either side, on which were two statues. One was Justice, her eyes milky white, her robes long and sweeping, with her sword at her side and her scales held aloft, triumphant. The other was Athena, wearing an elaborate helmet that left her face visible, and in one hand was her spear, in the other, an owl. She was the goddess of wisdom, Ricky supposed, although he was well aware she was known more for being the goddess of war strategy. He was pretty certain whoever commissioned these statues knew that too. A courtroom was a battlefield, after all.

There were four monolithic pillars set along the top of the stairs, Corithian in their style, with detailed capitals, and they held up a wide, gradually pointed roof. From the roof, and between the inner two pillars, hung a single glowing lamp, black iron, and underneath was a single set of doors, large and looming. Ricky walked right up the many steps, passing by multiple huddled groups of people in suits and shirts and ties, and into the marble foyer. It was just as grand inside as it was outside.

The receptionist directed him to the appropriate courtroom, reminding him to enter it slowly and quietly, as the court was in session, and had been for a while now. Ricky nodded, but he was already halfway gone, whistling a distracted tune to himself as he went. She shushed at him, librarianly. He shut up.

He could hear the voices from outside the door, monotonous and cool, as all lawyer’s voices were. He slipped through the doors; the benches were almost empty, so Ricky went right to the front, behind the rail, sitting back and folding his arms, getting as comfortable as he could on the wooden bench. He took a quick moment to observe the actors on the stage; a lawyer and the defendant sat at the table to the left, and at the table to the right sat a lone lawyer, the prosecutor, seemingly very much at ease, legs crossed, hands folded on top of his knee. The judge, an older man who Ricky realized as the city’s previous mayor, was in the middle of talking to the clerk in front of him, murmuring. The jury sat in various stages of boredom. Ricky sighed quietly. He knew that court sessions went on for… a while. Within minutes, he found himself being distracted.

The lone prosecutor had scribbled something onto a scrap of paper, and he angled it towards the defendant’s desk. Ricky leaned forward to see what it said, sitting back when his eyes met the lawyer’s. The guy looked pissed, glaring sidelong at Ricky for another few seconds before resuming his tilting of the note. The defendant’s lawyer was sweating, beads of perspiration visible to Ricky from side-on, and he hastily nodded at whatever was on the post-it. He then turned to the defendant and whispered something. She nodded her blonde-haired head, eagerly. The lone lawyer smiled to himself, seemingly satisfied, before scrunching up the note and tucking it into his pocket. He stood up, tall and slim and strikingly neat in his slate grey suit.

“Permission to approach the bench, Your Honour?”

The judge raised his head to look at the lawyer, and Ricky noticed just the barest flicker of unease in his pale blue eyes. “Granted.”

The two lawyers approached the bench, where they murmured with the judge for a huge total of one minute. Ricky was, for once, genuinely interested in the current proceedings. He sat forward, resting his elbows on the rail. He felt a tap on his shoulder - a security guard.

“Elbows off the rail, son.”

Ricky took his elbows off the rail with a roll of his eyes.

The lawyers turned away from the bench and moved back to their respective tables. Ricky eyed the tall one, and was eyed back in return. The man had a handsome face, with a strong, pointed nose that gave an air of intelligence, if also snootiness, and quietly observant eyes. He gave Ricky a lingering look over his shoulder before sitting down. The judge was speaking again, loud and sure.

“A settlement has been reached between the defending party and the prosecuting party. The defendant pleads guilty on the account of the involuntary manslaughter of Mr Harvey White. Her sentence will consist of twelve months in prison and a fine of five hundred dollars.”

The gavel banged once, and it echoed around Ricky’s head. A year? Five hundred dollar fine? The sentence was almost as lenient as it could get. The chatter in the room rose, the jury beginning to file out their designated door. He watched as the prosecutor shook hands with the defendant’s lawyer, a charming smile on his face. Not just charming. Smug. Self-satisfied. Sly. All the unpleasant words beginning with ‘s’.

Papers began to be stuffed into cases, murmuring words rose within the jury. Ricky opened the door between the benches and the main court, pushing his jacket aside to let the security guard see the badge on his belt. He went up to the stenographer, all smiles.

“Am I able to get a copy of what happened today? Just for records back at the station.”

She shrugged. “Sure. I’ll send a messenger over with it as soon as I can. Just write down your name and station”

He took the pen and paper she offered, bending over the table to write the information down. He read some of the words over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. Most of it was in some sort of shorthand, apart from one word. "Wait, she was diagnosed with what?"

"Schizophrenia," came the bored reply.

"Huh? When?"

She lifted the paper a tad, eyes skimming it from behind her small-rimmed spectacles. "Says yesterday."

Ricky straightened back up, his eyes still lingering on the words and symbols she had typed, crisp and clear in their Courier font on slightly off-white paper. This was a new aspect of the case. Schizophrenia? Since when? He wandered out of the court, his mind abuzz with what he could remember about this particular case. He had found it strange that there had been a complete lack of violence or criminal misconduct in the defendant's background, especially considering how the victim had been murdered; beaten with a fire poker before having his head bashed in by a door. Viciously violent. And although he was aware that schizophrenia didn't equal violent tendencies, the only reason it would have been relevant in court would have been if it was relevant to the case. An excuse, of sorts, for her actions. Maybe it had counted towards her reduced sentence? Whatever it was, Ricky didn't quite understand it.

He hurried down the steps outside. It had started out a clear, sunny day, but it was growing cloudier by the minute. He opened his car door, pausing as he realized quite jarringly that he was being watched. The prosecuting lawyer was passing through the cars a few meters away, and his head was turned towards Ricky, blatantly staring. The man's suit jacket was off, draped over his arm, casually debonair. Ricky stared back for a moment, still holding his car door open. He tried arching an eyebrow, questioning. The lawyer simply looked away, continuing on across the parking lot. Ricky frowned after him before getting into his own car and starting up the engine.

* * *

He went back over the evidence when he got back to his desk. It was all logged, clear as day and entirely undeniable; blood under her fingernails, her hairs at the crime scene, witness testimonies of her leaving the house. Someone poked his shoulder, quite forcefully, and his head whipped around with an offended frown. It was just the messenger from the courthouse, as requested. He was young, about fifteen. Ricky muttered a thanks ignoring the small note attached to the envelope as he opened it up to take out the stenographer's record, typed out properly so it was understandable. He skimmed through it; the diagnosis of schizophrenia was given by a Doctor Jesse Fahr. Ricky crossed the office, and the messenger tagged along doggedly, waiting while Ricky skimmed the phone directory to locate the doctor's practice. Once he had, he jotted down the telephone number on the back of his hand with a blue biro. Then he went back to the envelope, squinting at the note attached to the front.

_Sorry for shushing you earlier. I'd actually love to hear you chat. Coffee some time?_

He pursed his lips, taking a moment to admire her bravery before flipping the note and writing a reply on the back. _Sorry, no can do._ He handed it back to the messenger, who waited with raised eyebrows. Ricky tutted at him before taking a dollar from his pocket and shoving it into his chest. The messenger scurried off, satisfied, and as he left the main office the chief entered. His eyes landed on Ricky instantly and he barked, as he did ten times a day: "Tie, Goldsworth!"

Ricky scowled at him, buttoning his collar and doing up his tie again. He had been reprimanded many a time for his untidiness at the workplace, but it was uncomfortable to sit with a shirt collar strangling you for eight hours a day. Ties, however, were just that bit more tolerable, and he did have a particular fondness of floral patterns, in whatever colour they were available in. Today it was a satin deep purple paisley with just the barest flecks of yellow. He liked it. A little hideous, but he liked it. But with it loose and his collar open, it was deemed 'inappropriate work attire', as the chief frequently reminded him, or sometimes a snapped 'put your tits away, Goldsworth'. The chief was not a patient man, and he and Ricky did not work together well. This worked out for Ricky, as he was left to his own devices more often than not, as long as he came about with a satisfactory answer within a reasonable amount of time.

Ricky spun in the number for Doctor Jesse Fahr's office, slouching back in his chair, spinning it slowly from side to side, fidgeting with a pen, bringing it to his mouth, chewing on it. The phone was answered by a secretary, and then put through to the doctor himself once Ricky explained the nature of the call. The man's voice was weedy, anxious, with a thick German accent.

"Doctor Fahr speaking."

Ricky launched into the usual spiel, voice drawled. "Afternoon, my name's Detective Ricky Goldsworth. I was just looking over the court record from the Harvey White case and saw that the defendant was diagnosed with schizophrenia yesterday by you?"

A pause, not a single sound at the other end of the line. "...Yes?"

"Can I ask on what basis?"

"...No, it is private. Client confidentiality."

Ricky frowned at the clipped reply. "Right. Well, I kinda want to know. It seemed a whole lot last minute to me."

"It's not under your jurisdiction."

Ricky detected just a hint of concern in his voice. "I could always subpoena them for our records here. If I wanted. Might be a bit embarrassing for you." His voice sounded amplified on the line. "Am I on a loudspeaker?"

A quick fumble, a clicking, and then a "no".

Ricky raised an eyebrow. "Right." His voice wasn't amplified anymore.

There was a murmured conversation in the background at the other end of the line, hushed. Then Fahr replied, with much more confidence than before. "I could sue you for coercion then, detective. You are violating client confidentiality. I don't have to explain my client's situation to you."

Ricky rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Be like that." He hung up.

Doctor Fahr put the phone down on his end, and turned to the other person in the room. "He said 'fine, whatever, be like that'."

"Hm. Did he."

"Yes."

An unsettling quiet. "If I hadn't been here, what would you have done."

"I- Nothing!" A scramble to rephrase his words. "Not _nothing_ , but I wouldn't have told him anything, I swear it."

A snort. "You almost passed out when he said the word 'subpoena', Fear. If he calls you again, tell him you need to speak to your lawyer first."

Fahr nodded. "Yes. Of course."

"Good." Tinsley stood up and went to the window, peering out at the drops of rain beginning to stain the pavement below. "For God's sake. Do you have a spare umbrella? I want to go to this guy's funeral."

The doctor took his own umbrella from beside the door, bringing it to him. "You _want_ to go?"

"Yes, I _want_ to go." Tinsley swiped the umbrella off him as he passed, not in a cruel way, but in a way that made it clear he didn't view Fahr as anything but an object to be used when needed. A therapist at certain times, an umbrella stand at other times. "The money should be in your account by tomorrow. If not, the day after. Give Holly a bell if you have any trouble with it."

He closed the door after himself, rolling his eyes at the incompetence of the doctor. The nickname Fear suited him, since that was the emotion that embodied him as a person. He passed by the secretary, who had put through the call in the first place. Another incompetent individual. He shrugged on his coat, took his leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on over his fingers. Was _everyone_ in this town so incompetent? He wove through the slow crowd, mentally screaming at them to move before he was forced to start utilizing his elbows. Did he really have to do everything himself? Did he really have to zip from A to B and B to C twenty times a day to make sure everyone was in check? He ignored a woman's curse as he shoved her aside into a shallow - _shallow -_ puddle. She wasn't leaving room on the path, so what was he supposed to do? Step into the puddle himself? Unlikely. His shoes were worth more than her entire outfit. He hailed a cab, sticking out a gloved hand. It pulled over and he ducked into the back, snapping the umbrella shut, snapping his destination. What was Fear even thinking? Was he ever fucking thinking? Of course he had to go to the funeral. He had to see that coffin go into the ground and know, for certain, for himself, that the fucker was six feet under and staying there until he rotted away to join the rest of the dirt. Tinsley smoothed down his tie, making sure it was still neatly knotted, the knot not too small, but not repulsively large either. His wet umbrella lay on the two empty seats beside him. The cab driver spared him a look in the rear view mirror, the windscreen wipers slid back and forth, _thunk, thunk, thunk._ Tinsley held his gaze.

"What."

The driver looked away. Tinsley tutted from behind his teeth, turning his head to glare out the window. Incompetence even spread to the taxi drivers around here. Like a goddamn disease. 

* * *

Ricky stayed under the trees, and he was glad that the rain gave him an excuse to do so. It made it seem less suspicious. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, the shoulders of it slowly growing damp with the stray drops making it through the foliage above. His scarf hung loose around his neck; unfortunately, despite the wet weather, it was quite warm. He wished he hadn't chosen a waistcoat today, but the chief insisted on such a level of dress. The funeral had a popular turn out. Some family. Some friends. Some press. He saw a woman and two children sitting near the front of the crowd, dark green umbrella held over them. The children were crying. The wife wasn’t. She just looked stunned, pale behind her makeup, the blush almost a comical rosy red on her cheeks. He supposed she'd had two shocks over the past few days; firstly, husband murdered, secondly, husband was a child molester. He looked back at the casket. _Rot in hell._

The sound of a wet umbrella being shook nearby jerked him from his thoughts, and he turned his head to follow the noise. A few trees down stood another observer. A tall, slim, handsome man dressed in a long black coat and dark grey suit, his umbrella poised like a cane, a black gloved hand resting over the dark wood curved handle. It was the prosecuting lawyer. He looked at Ricky, and for a moment they simply watched each other. Ricky couldn’t tell if an approach was welcome or not. He wandered over anyway, keeping his eyes on the funeral, the wood of the coffin shining amid the black coats and coloured umbrellas. The lawyer didn’t verbally acknowledge him. Ricky spoke up first.

“Hello.”

The response was delayed, and oddly irritated. “Hello.”

Ricky continued chirpily. “Open and shut case, hm?”

“Mm.” A pause. “Hopefully.”

“Hopefully?”

“Apparently there’s someone poking around behind the scenes. Where they shouldn’t be.” He turned his head to look at Ricky. “It was a prima facie case. People get suspicious sometimes. But they get over it eventually, with or without outside help.”

Ricky didn’t quite know how to respond to this. He stayed quiet, biting on his lip, watching the umbrellas glittering with rain. The lawyer spoke again.

“You’re the detective who worked on the murder itself, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Ricky didn’t elaborate. “Surprised we didn’t meet somehow.”

“We’re meeting now.”

Ricky gave him a sidelong look. The lawyer wasn't looking back. He had eyes only for the coffin. “I meant before this. During the trial.”

A disinterested silence. The subject was swiftly changed. “What brings you here?”

Ricky shrugged. “Curiosity. You?”

“...A particular habit I have of seeing things through til the end.”

Ricky didn’t know what to think of his tone. “…Cool.”

They watched the coffin be lowered down into the grave, the hole in the earth, and the priest droned on and on, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The lawyer spoke quietly.

“He’s buried now.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah. He is.”

“Let’s hope he stays down there, okay?”

A friendly joke, or a warning? Ricky couldn’t tell, and the smile that had accompanied the man's words hadn't exactly been friendly. “Yeah, well, according to his background he’ll be going all the way down.”

The lawyer opened his umbrella with a sharp flick. “So will most of us.” 

He turned on his heel and left. Ricky watched him go, his eyes narrowing a tad. The interaction had left him feeling a bit odd, uneasy, like there was some message somewhere that he'd failed to understand, a riddle he'd failed to solve. He expected the lawyer to look back over his shoulder at him, like they did in the movies. It didn't happen. If anything the lawyer tilted his umbrella back to cover himself from Ricky as much as possible, as curtains draw over a stage.

Ricky remained under the trees until the rain slackened a tad. In the quick respite between showers he hurried to his car, taking off his damp coat once he was sat in the driver's seat and shoving it into the back seats. It was Thursday, and on Thursdays he had lunch with his mother. If he was late, she would be quick to let her annoyance be shown. He started the engine and hurried to the diner they usually met at. She was in their usual booth, perusing a menu. Her shiny dark hair was set in its usual side-wave, a tribute to Lauren Bacall, a particular favourite of Lucy's. Ricky sat into the booth across from her wide a smile.

"Hi mom."

"Oh, you decided to turn up?"

"I'm barely five minutes late. I do have a job, you know."

She raised her brows at the imaginary attitude she believed was there. "Well, I see where your priorities lie."

_"Mom."_

"Oh, fine, you're forgiven." She smiled at him; her lips were painted a dusky rose. She reached over and gave his cheek a pinch. "You need to shave."

"No I don't," he muttered, brushing her hand away. "It's fine."

"I thought the chief wasn't one for scruff?"

"He's not."

"So you're out to agitate him, I see."

"I'm a cop, not a school kid." Ricky rested his chin in his hand, spinning the menu around under his finger. "I just didn't have time this morning."

He hadn't had time, because he had had a late night, and had woken up in a bed that wasn't his in an apartment that wasn't his. But he had hurried home and got himself remotely together before going into work, which had been an impressive feat in itself with a glaring hangover behind his eyes.

They placed their orders with the waiter, who knew them quite well by now to have predicted their orders; Lucy, a bowl of the day's soup (leek and potato) and thick brown bread, and Ricky, a grilled cheese and a cup of black coffee.

"Your coat is sopping!" said Lucy after the waiter had gone. "Were you outside?"

"I went to Harvey White's funeral this morning. You know, the child molester who was murdered."

"I say good riddance."

"Most people do."

"Why did you go?" she asked, as Ricky poured them each a glass of water from the carafe provided. "Is it a requirement?"

"No. No, I just..." He shrugged. "I just felt like something was off about the case. The trial aspect, anyway."

Lucy visibly perked up with interest; she was reliable like that, always up to uncovering a conspiracy. Hence the reason she had climbed so swiftly up the ranks of the local paper. "Oh? Do tell."

"I don't know where to start yet. I might just be being paranoid."

"Try me."

Ricky's coffee arrived, placed down in its patterned cup at his elbow. Ricky absent-mindedly let his eyes run over the waiter as the man walked away. "The defendant got a year in prison and a five hundred dollar fine. For murdering a guy with a fire poker and a door. I mean, don't you think that's a bit lenient?"

Her brows had drawn together in a puzzled frown. "Yes. I do think it's lenient. Who was the judge?"

"The Mayor."

"...And who was the lawyer?"

Ricky swallowed his mouthful of coffee. "Defense or prosecution?"

"Prosecution."

"I didn't catch his name. But tall. Good-looking. Pointy nose and glasses."

This seemed to confirm something in her head; she nodded knowingly. "Cecile Tinsley. Oh, those two are a bad pair. A gruesome twosome. Cases are always strange when they're involved."

Ricky's gaze was focused now, not so distracted by the waiter wandering about. "Really? How so?"

"Odd patterns over the years. The same situations; guy murdered, proven posthumously to be a child molester or trafficker or some other sick revelation, and his murderer gets off with a lenient sentence." She went quiet as their food was served, the dishes set in front of each of them. She picked up a piece of brown bread and broke off a section before dipping it in the steaming soup. "I tried to investigate it before, when I was in my last position at the paper. I got absolutely nowhere. The Mayor shut the door in my face more than once, and that lawyer could vanish without a trace whenever he wanted, apparently. And there were connections, I know there were, but it was like just..." She waved a hand helplessly. "...strings vanishing into fog, moving around, all tied to something, but I couldn't find out who they were for the life of me."

Ricky hadn't touched his food yet. "And was there a doctor Fahr? A German man?"

She pondered this. "His name rings a bell, yes. There was a little group of them, a posse. The judge, the lawyer, the doctor, and that Holly Horsley, the one who opened an orphanage a few years ago."

Ricky raised an eyebrow. "And what did you think of them? What did you think they were up to?"

"I never found out," she replied, a frustrated sigh following. "It's locked up tight, whatever it is. But there's potential corruption in there, no doubt."

He sat back, hands still cupping his cup of coffee on the table. "Worth looking into?"

"Well you know me, Ricardo. Everything is worth looking into." She nodded at his plate. "Now eat before your lunch gets cold."

* * *

The room was warm and comfortable, the fire smouldering in the hearth. Holly had ordered the maid away, she could take care of the fire herself for the next hour or so. The sound of a cork popping out of a bottle of wine was a pleasant sound, and she looked at the man by the drink's cabinet.

"Another one in the bag," she said with a smile.

"Mm."

"Well done, Tinsley." She accepted the glass of deep red wine from him, taking a taste. Delicious. Then again, it was her favourite brand. "Have you another one yet?"

"I'm pondering one." He was standing by the dark wood drinks cabinet, pouring himself a glass of wine with one hand, lighting the cigarette in his mouth with the other. The flame cast sharp shadows across his face. "I can see a few connections from here on out anyway. Cigarette?"

"Please."

She took the one he offered and let him light it before sitting back in her seat, crossing her legs. She was wearing her pajamas and slippers and a plush dressing gown, seeing as it was late, but Tinsley had a tendency to drop over at such times. He hardly seemed to sleep. She watched him wander over to the window. He had removed his suit jacket and his tie, they lay draped over the desk beside her. His shirt was a crisp cotton white, his braces a deep red with brass buckles. She had never seen him not dressed sharply, and he was lucky that he had the frame that suited a suit; tall, slim, neat, with fine shoulders and narrow hips. He turned his head to look at her, the firelight glinting off his glasses.

"How's the kid settling in?"

"As well as they always do."

"Good." He took a drag on his cigarette, turning his gaze back to the window. The smoke curled out between his lips as he spoke. "Something strange happened today, but I can't quite pinpoint what it was."

She raised her brows. "Oh?"

He took another pull on his cigarette. "Have you ever heard of a Detective Ricky Goldsworth?"

She thought about it. "No. He's not the son of that newspaper editor, is he?"

"How common do you think the name 'Goldsworth' is." He turned on his heel, crossing the room to her desk, stubbing out his cigarette in the glass ashtray there. "He was poking around earlier. Rang Fear."

Her brows raised. "How did it go?"

"Let's just say we were lucky I was there." He tutted. "An insipid little man."

"But invaluable."

"Unfortunately."

She looked him over; he was tense. "You can't just take a break from all this, can you? I think it would do you good."

"No, Holly. I can't." That was the end of that. "Do you remember Lucy Goldsworth? She was irritating beyond measure. Her son seems to be just as much, if not more so." 

Her slate grey eyes watched him closely over the top of her glasses, observed him for the usual signs, the intensity he tended to adopt when an adversary showed even a chance of appearing. He was a mixture of personas, charming and trustworthy in court, serious and savage when out of it. She was almost certain that he enjoyed having an enemy, someone to battle and plot against, as long as he won in the end, which he did always seem to, she supposed. She was very glad that she was an ally in his eyes.

"What did he do?"

Tinsley shook his head. "No, he hasn't done anything. It's what he could do that has me on edge."

Holly watched him, his fidgeting. "When was the last time you went to see Fear?"

"Earlier today. I said that."

"No, I don't mean like that. I mean as a client."

Tinsley looked over his shoulder at her. "I don't need to."

"Tinsley, I'm not trying to insult you." She got to her feet, slowly, as if in the room with an easily-startled animal. "But I think it would be beneficial for all of us if you took care of yourself regarding your... mentality."

His face didn't change. "I said I don't need to."

"Tinsley-"

He tilted his head back to down the end of his glass of wine before setting the empty glass aside. "It's late. I'm going home."

He crossed the room to the door - taking his suit jacket and tie on the way - opening it and shutting it behind him, quick-sharp. Outside the hallway was empty, doors all closed. It would seem a maze to most people, but he knew it inside-out and upside-down. He started back towards the front of the house - house, manor, mansion - taking the route that would let him avoid the children's rooms. A door opened at the end of the corridor, the door to the accountant's office. Holly preferred to keep him close-by, in case of emergencies. He smiled at Tinsley from under his impressive moustache, readjusting his circular glasses on his round nose.

"Morning! Or, um, evening, I suppose. Night time really. Goodnight."

Tinsley threw him a disdainful look as he passed, not slowing for a second. He went downstairs and through the tiled hall, taking his coat from the cloakroom, tidying himself up in front of the mirror above the hallway table. He lightly prodded at the corner of his bottom lip; the small cut that had been there had left a slight mark. Hopefully it would be gone entirely soon. He pushed a hand through his hair and cleaned his glasses before stepping out the front door and down the stone steps. His footsteps crunched across the gravel, lonely. The soft golden light from the lamppost lining the driveway struck a chord in him somewhere, he knew it did. He was almost sure of it. He stood for a moment and stared up at the nearest light and tried to let the feeling through. It was in his chest, hiding. He stared at the light, unblinking, until his eyes were watering with the frustration. Then he sighed harshly and continued on to his car, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prima facie case - when the evidence of a case seems so undeniable that the outcome is already obvious   
> settlement - when the defense and the prosecution come to an agreement of how to settle the case without the judge's or jury's involvement  
> stenographer - the person who records a written version of the court hearing  
> subpoena - to seize otherwise classified information necessary for use as evidence


	2. The Café

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a relatively short one but sure that's how it be sometimes

It was a quiet morning. Ricky had been waiting for about thirty minutes outside the jail now; visiting hours didn't start until 10am. He bit on his thumbnail and refused to check his car for any stray cigarettes. He had given them up a few months before after reading a leaflet on how truly bad they had the potential to be. Not that he had been a heavy smoker; he hadn't developed a cough, or a gravelly voice, or trouble breathing, but he knew he would have been on the way had he continued. So he chewed on his thumbnail and glared determinedly out the window in lieu of having a cigarette. The guard at the gate stuck his head around the corner and waved at Ricky to come on in. It had just turned 10am.

Ricky was at the jail to see the defendant in the Harvey White case, the supposed vicious murderer with no violent history, who had received a sentence a quarter of what she should have gotten. He was the first person in the visitor room, and she was sitting at a table beside the door. He sat down across from her. She smiled at him, oddly relaxed for someone in prison; there were no bags under her eyes, no stress visible on her face. In fact, she looked very well indeed.

"Morning, detective."

"Good morning." He sat down across from her, scooching his chair in. "Thanks for agreeing to talk to me."

"I assume that it's nothing new about my case?"

"No. Nothing new."

"So nothing I need a lawyer for?"

"No. I promise." He spread his hands to show no papers, no notebooks, no recording apparatus. "I was a detective involved with Mr White's murder, and I just wanted to clear some stuff up in my head. Why were you in Mr White's house on the night of the murder?"

She replied quickly. "I was collecting some babysitting money he owed me. I arrived at 7pm and was gone by 8pm. I was in his office because he said he had no cash on him and that it was in the top drawer of his desk."

"And what made you decide to kill him so... suddenly? I didn't see any history of violence in your background."

"I was unaware at the time but I was sent to a therapist and diagnosed with schizophrenia."

It went on like this. Ricky would ask a question about the case, and she would reel off an answer, word for word, as it was on the stenographer's record, like an actor repeating lines from a play. Ricky listened and nodded and tried not to get too impatient. He didn't last long. He checked his watch and muttered something about having somewhere to be before getting up and shaking her hand and leaving.

The guard who had let him in was still outside. "Well? You got what you wanted?"

"I don't really know what I wanted, but I got... something." He stood with his hands on his hips, brows drawn together as he tried to understand why he felt so uneasy. He started walking, and the guard walked with him. "She, uh, looked pretty well. For someone in prison. If I ever get arrested I'll make sure to come here."

"Oh, no, this is just a nice section _of_ the prison," replied the guard, leading him toward the exist. "We try not to mix up the petty thieves and the like with people who should probably be on Death Row. Only makes sense, I think."

Ricky turned his head to look at him, still staring by the time they stopped at the exit. "But she was found guilty of murder. Why would she be in the same section of the prison as petty thieves?"

"No idea, detective. Judge's rules. Don't forget to sign out."

"Oh, yeah. Sure." He printed his signature on the gridded paper. "Why did the judge order her to be kept there?"

A shrug. "Not a clue. We just do as we're told. Can't bite the hand that feeds us."

Ricky smiled, just a small one. "No. I guess you can't." _But I can._ "I have to keep going. Got someone to visit."

* * *

Ricky took the steps two at a time - he would have preferred to take them three at a time, but his legs weren't quite long enough - before coming to a slow halt halfway up them. Another pillar, a human one, had appeared among the four usual ones that held up the courthouse roof. The lawyer was coming down the steps towards him, brazen, and so Ricky started moving up them again, attempting to smooth over his sudden pause by whistling ever so casually. They wandered to a halt on the same step, watching each other like two tomcats on a wall, and Ricky's whistling stopped. Again, Ricky noticed the unmistakable hostility, the underlying dislike radiating off the other man in hot waves, the reason for which he didn't know. He supposed he might as well make a reason. He smiled brightly.

"Morning."

Tinsley looked at his smile as if he'd gladly remove every tooth from it. "What are you doing here."

Ricky shrugged. "Working."

"Mm. You work a lot."

"I've got as many bills to pay as the next man."

"Oh, but it's important that you rest." Tinsley's eyebrow arched ever so slightly. "Do you ever rest?"

"Do you?"

"No." Tinsley gave him an unpleasantly lingering once-over, already turning away. "No, I hardly even sleep."

Ricky watched him go for a few seconds before muttering "oddball" and continuing on up the steps, taking them one by one this time. It was relatively quiet; courts were in session. He went to the receptionist and asked for directions to the Mayor's office. He looked at her name badge this time; Darla, it said. She was friendly and smiley with dark, dark hair and pale skin, and spoke with an Irish accent. He asked her how long she'd been in America for. She said long enough, perhaps ten years, she came with her dad. He said his mom had come from Mexico with _her_ dad.

"How do you like it so far?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Pros and cons. Nice weather, though. I like having summers, for once."

"I like having winters."

"It's nice to have... distinguishable seasons."

"Sure is."

He found his way to the Mayor's office with her directions. It was tucked away, nicely private. Or it should have been, anyway. It wasn't now. Ricky knock-knock-knocked, his other hand on his hip. There was a muffled: "Who is it?"

"Detective Goldsworth."

A scraping of chair legs against floor, followed by incoming footsteps. The door opened, revealing the judge, still donning his black robes. He was intimidatingly tall, with a large square jaw, a severe brow, and a strong convex nose. With his pale skin and white hair and watery-blue eyes, all he was missing was a scythe and a deep hood to play a convincing Death. He didn't say hello. He said: "Identification?"

Ricky showed his identification, reining in his attitude for now. The Mayor took hold of the ID, squinting at the card, checking the badge beside it. Then he handed it back and said: "What is it."

"Can I come in?"

The Mayor's voice remained flat. "No. I don't have time for tea and biscuits. Sorry."

Ricky put a hand out as the door began making its way to being closed. "Hold on a second. Look, I suppose I don't _need_ to come in. I just need to ask a question."

"Okay. Ask. Quick. I have a meeting in five minutes and I can't be late."

"I went to visit the defendant from the Harvey White case and I couldn't help but notice she's in a pretty lavish part of the jail for a convicted murderer." He raised a dark eyebrow. "I was just wondering why?"

There was a silence, and then a clipped response. "Common sense. Now is that everything?" The door was already closing over. "I'm busy. Goodbye." It closed.

Ricky stood where he was for a moment, hands on his hips. "Blow me, I guess."

He made his moody way back outside and down the steps, tossing his keys in one hand. He went to his car, opening the door, before pausing. The lawyer was at his own car, parked a row or two away. He was sat on the bonnet, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, staring at Ricky. It wasn't a particularly sunny day; there was no reason for him to be sitting like so. Unless he had been waiting for someone, something. Ricky waved at him with such enthusiasm and friendliness that it was anything but. _I can see you,_ he wanted to shout. _I can see you seeing me._ But he couldn't shout in broad daylight, so the waving would have to do. The lawyer stood upright, tossing his cigarette aside before getting into his own car and starting the engine and driving away. Ricky hesitated for a moment, watching the road until the man's car was gone. Then he hurried across the rows until he got to the lawyer's parking spot. The cigarette was there, barely half-smoked and still burning away. So Tinsley had been waiting for him to come back out. Why? Ricky stubbed the cigarette out under the heel of his shoe. Why wait for him to come out only to get into his car and leave anyway? Tinsley was definitely strange, but from what Ricky had heard he was intelligent too, which meant he was _allowed_ to be strange. Strange, intelligent, and attractive. There was no mix more dangerous than that. 

Ricky went to the station and worked at his desk for the rest of the day, and struggled not to let his thoughts wander. He started a small notebook, just to sort out his mind, scribbling down what he had found odd about the case so far. The _closed_ case. He would have to keep it all quiet until he found something solid to use as proof that something was definitely wrong, or more accurately, corrupt.

* * *

It was only the next day when he saw Tinsley again. Well, Tinsley saw him first. One minute he had been alone at the counter of the coffee shop, oblivious to the tinkling bell of a newcomer as he ordered an Americano to go, and the next Tinsley had been at his shoulder, telling the barista to make it two Americanos, and to make them to stay. Ricky looked back over his shoulder at him with an indignant frown.

"Do you mind? I have somewhere to be, so I'm going to take my coffee to go. So-"

"Don't be difficult, detective." A charming smile. "I only want to talk."

"Oh yeah? What about."

"About a certain person I thought we agreed would stay buried."

"You didn't specify whether you meant literally or metaphorically."

"I didn't specify because I meant it in every way possible." Tinsley turned to the barista as she came back over, passing the cash to her for both coffees, ignoring Ricky's protests. "Listen, detective. I understand that maybe you've read one too many Christies or Chandlers or whoever, but you're not a Poirot or a Marlowe, okay?" A firm hand on Ricky's lower back was guiding him to a table beside the window. "So I'd like to have a chat with you. Get on equal footing. Get on the same page. Speak the same language. Yeah?"

Ricky's scowl was unwavering. "Stop touching me like that."

"Like what?" said Tinsley with a convincingly innocent raise of his brows. His hand was still pressed to Ricky's back, fingertips brushing his belt.

Ricky raised his chin. "Sorry to have to tell you, but it'll take a bit more than a coffee and a grope to get me to do whatever you're about to ask."

"A grope? I'm barely touching you."

"Hand. Off."

Tinsley's eyes were steely. "Fine." He took his hand away. "And I'm not going to ask you to do anything. I'm going to ask you about something you've already done."

The coffees arrived, steaming hot, placed on the table by a waitress, who swiftly scurried back to the till as more customers came in. Ricky watched Tinsley, and Tinsley watched back, and smiled.

"Sit down, detective."

"I'd rather not."

"C'mon. Don't play hard to bribe."

Ricky spared a wry laugh and a shake of his head. "What the hell do you want, sleazebag."

Tinsley's smile fell ever so slightly, unimpressed. "You went to the jail earlier and paid a certain person a visit. Why was that."

"Curiosity."

"You do a lot of things out of curiosity, don't you."

"Sure. It's my job."

"It's your job to be curious about cases that are open to investigation," said Tinsley with an arched brow. "Not closed ones. Which is what _you_ -" A light poke in the chest. "-are doing."

Ricky closed his eyes, still smiling dryly. "I'll tell you one more time not to touch me."

"Oh? Am I really so repulsive to you?" Tinsley inclined his head. "I know I'm a little bit older than you, but from what I've heard you like that. Yeah?"

"Excuse me?"

"Got some issues of the daddy kind, do we?"

Ricky stared at him in disbelief, unblinking. "Do you _want_ to be put through the window? Is that it?"

"Ah. Sorry. I suppose we don't know each other quite so well yet. I'll up my formality." Tinsley waved at a hand at the coffees. "Sit? I'll hardly keep you five minutes. Strictly business."

Ricky debated this. One half of him wanted to deck the guy on the spot. The other was intrigued as to what other bullshit he might say next. "As long as it's strictly business, that's no problem."

"Fantastic." Tinsley sat, crossing his legs at an angle to the table. He picked up his coffee, black, and watched as Ricky added a drop of milk and a spoonful or two of sugar to his before mumbling: "Hm. Figures."

Ricky raised his head to stare at him. "What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything. Calm down." Tinsley held his cup in his slim hands, his fingers winding around the white ceramic, unbothered by the heat off the coffee inside. "Why did you visit the defendant earlier today? I found the information quite unsettling."

"Oh yeah?" Ricky stirried his coffee with the spoon provided. "And where did you get this information? The guard? Suspicious. The defendant? Even more suspicious. Someone you've hired to keep an eye on me? The most suspicious of all."

"You're sharp, aren't you."

Ricky smiled at him, before slipping his spoon into his mouth and drawing it out again, oh so casual, except for the lingering eye contact which accompanied the gesture. "What has you so paranoid, Tinsley."

"I'm a lawyer. Everything to do with any case I've been involved in is reason for paranoia."

"Oh yeah? You really walk the tightrope between legal and illegal that often?"

Tinsley smiled at him before taking a drink of his coffee. He set his cup back down on its saucer. "All the best do."

"No. No, that's just what you guys tell yourselves so you can sleep at night."

Tinsley laughed at this. He had a warm laugh, warm and deep and velvety. "Oh, there are so many reasons for me not to be sleeping at night that I couldn't even begin to bother explaining. But let's just say that doing bad things is the least of my worries." His smile vanished. "It's seeing bad things being done that really sticks with you."

"Yeah. I know. I'm a detective."

"Ah, you are. So how do _you_ sleep at night?"

Ricky gave him a long look. Then he brought his cup to his mouth and said: "Usually with a bit of help." He took a mouthful and swallowed.

Tinsley seemed interested. "Oh? Are you in a relationship, detective?" A laugh. "Who am I kidding? Of course you are. Look at you."

"I'm not, actually."

"So what is it you do then? Go out and have your pick of the bar, I assume."

"More or less." Ricky sat back, folding his arms across his chest. He wanted to point out that this talk wasn't quite 'strictly business'. Instead he voiced his curiosity. "And do you have a partner?"

Tinsley shrugged. "I have an old flame or two that I like to keep lit."

"Like to keep them warm, do you."

"Only when I think they're about to fizzle out."

"So you're leading them on."

Tinsley shrugged again. "Who knows? Maybe one day I will settle down and marry one of them. Maybe not. Marriage doesn't exactly appeal to me. Not when it comes to being one of the people involved, anyway." He sighed lightly. "But a marriage can be very amusing, if you know how to play people correctly."

Ricky raised a dark eyebrow. "Meaning what, exactly?"

Tinsley smiled at him, sly. "Have you ever split up a marriage, Ricky? I'd say you have. Whether or not you knew about it."

Ricky went quiet. "You said you wanted to talk business. This isn't business talk."

Tinsley skipped on, as if they hadn't been wandering just a bit too close to dangerous conversation. "What did you ask the defendant about earlier? I checked up on you and you have no past relationship with her, in any way."

"I just voiced a curiosity or two."

"Curiosity," repeated Tinsley. The word dripped off his tongue. "I'm beginning to hate the sound of that word coming from your mouth."

"Why? Does me being curious frighten you?"

Tinsley laughed. "Nothing frightens me."

Ricky smiled. "Then you have nothing to worry about."

"Can you promise me that, Ricky?"

"Want me to sign a contract or something, do you? Typical lawyer shit?"

"I just want you to look me in the eye and tell me you'll stop poking your cute little nose into other people's business," said Tinsley, and his mouth was smiling, and his eyes were ice cold. "Can you do that, Ricky?"

Ricky watched him closely; he didn't like the way Tinsley kept saying his name, slowly, savouring it. "I could. Don't really want to."

A rapid-fire knocking on the window made them both look aside, and Ricky tried to appear irritated by the blessing waving through the glass at him. "It's my mom."

Tinsley slumped back in his seat, crossing his legs. "Yeah. I know."

"Ricky!" Lucy went straight from the door to their table, looking at her son. She spoke in Spanish to him. _"I thought you said you didn't like this guy?"_

_"I don't like him."_

_"But here you are having a nice coffee and a gossip, hm?"_

_"At gunpoint, basically,"_ he muttered. _"I don't want to be here."_

She looked Tinsley over with a raised brow before looking back at Ricky. _"Are you sure?"_

He rolled his eyes. _"Yes. I'm sure."_

_"He's very handsome. I'll leave you alone if you want."_

_"No, mom, I don't want. His looks aren't enough reason for me to sit through a conversation with him, believe it or not."_ He raised his brows at her. _"Pretend to have an argument with me so we can leave."_

She immediately did so, raising her voice, speaking sharply, and he spoke back just as sharply, and Tinsley spoke levelly: "I suppose I should leave."

"Forget it," snapped Ricky, sidelong at him. "I'll leave. Thanks for the coffee."

So he followed Lucy out of the café and by the window, still pretending to be arguing with her, and his eyes caught Tinsley's through the glass, where the lawyer was sitting with his chin in his hand and his fingers resting lightly across his mouth. Ricky winked at him, _gotcha_. Tinsley's eyes narrowed. He sat back and finished his coffee in a frustrated silence. He got to his feet and, with a flippant hand, knocked the remainder of Ricky's drink off the table; the ceramic shattered on the ground, the warm coffee splattering across the hardwood. The baristas stared. He stared back before leaving without another word.


	3. Francesca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: ricky is the good guy in this one  
> also me: still makes ricky a bastard man

It was a chilly morning. The clouds hung low and heavy, threatening rain. A light, cold breeze rustled the leaves in the trees. Ricky welcomed the breeze. He was out for a run, as he did every morning and every evening, he had to keep moving, always, he couldn’t stay still, because then his thoughts would buzz in his head until they were deafening. He passed under the trees, following the gravel path, but he slowed to a halt as his gaze landed on a tall figure standing in the kid’s park through the chain link fence. He wondered how many times he might have already passed this tall figure on his runs, or in the street, how many times he might have bumped into him going through a doorway, or honked his horn at him as their cars narrowly glanced past each other on a road. But now he knew Tinsley, and at the sight of him his heart skipped a beat, although it wasn’t quite pleasant enough to be called a skip. It stopped and restarted anyway, like a fist had clenched it hard for a split second.

The lawyer stood talking to a woman with grey hair pinned atop her head by a dull gold clip. She was wearing a long maroon velvet coat with black fur trim along the hem and sleeves, diamond-patterned black tights, black patent leather Oxfords, and a matching black patent leather bag with a dull gold clasp over her shoulder. The lawyer was sporting a deep navy suit today, almost black, a light blue shirt underneath, and a dark-coloured tie. The blazer was buttoned, snug around his slim waist, and the shirt collar was buttoned too, the tie done up in a neat knot, yet it didn’t look like it was stifling him. His skin was as smooth and pale as ever, and as Ricky got closer he realized there wasn’t even a blemish on the man’s face. Like a doll. Or a robot.

“Morning.”

The lawyer, who had been ignoring his approach, stopped talking mid-sentence and looked at him like he was a fly. “Morning.”

The woman, who was vaguely recognizable, also said 'morning'.

Ricky looked back at Tinsley. “You’re up early.”

“You are too.”

A child ran by, shrieking, chasing another with a stick in hand. Ricky raised an eyebrow.

“Any of them yours?”

Irritation passed over Tinsley’s face. “No.”

Ricky looked at the woman, and although she seemed a good bit older than he and Tinsley - perhaps mid-fifties - he said: “You guys together?”

Her slate grey eyes narrowed at this, but Tinsley spoke up before she could. “No. Now what do you want.”

Ricky scuffed his shoe off the ground, hands on his hips. “Nothing. Just thought I’d say hey. Since we’re such good friends and all.” He looked at the woman. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

She didn’t extend a gloved hand to be shaken. “No, you don’t know me.” She spoke quite proper, with a posh English accent. “You’ve probably just seen me in the papers.”

It clicked. “Holly Horsley, isn’t it? Love the name. That alliteration?” He mimed a chef’s kiss. “Perfecto.”

Tinsley’s eyes closed, as if he was restraining himself from lashing out. “Apologies, Holly. I’ll give you and the kids some space now.” He gave Ricky a pointed look and repeated: “Now.”

Ricky reluctantly followed him towards the exit to the park, plucking at the damp on the front of his t-shirt. He had sweated more than he thought he had, and beside Tinsley he felt ten times scruffier than he was. The lawyer turned to face him, arms folded across his chest.

“You know, detective, if you really want my autograph I can give it to you. On a restraining order.”

“A restraining order? Bit extreme.”

“It’s the appropriate response to having a stalker.”

Ricky snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Believe me, I’m not flattered. Your presence irritates me immensely.”

“Aw, stop. I’ll cry.”

Tinsley made a sound from behind his teeth, a sharp _tsk,_ before turning on his heel and abruptly leaving. He went off the gravel path, cutting across the grass with short clipped steps. His hands fidgeted by his sides. Ricky smiled to himself before continuing his run with more energy than before. Holly Horsley watched him go, the dull gold rims of her glasses gleaming.

When he got home he had a quick shower, and he thought of Holly Horsley and how she might know Tinsley, and then he thought only of Tinsley, but he determinedly pushed the thoughts aside, eyes closed, face up into the hot water. When he was dried and dressed he shot out the door to pop into the public record office before work. He wanted to refresh his memory of Holly Horsley, just to stem his curiosity. Thankfully it didn’t take the clerk long to help him find what he was looking for; it was all relatively recent, after all.

A few news articles about Holly’s fundraisers over the years cropped up first. Tinsley was present in a few of the photographs which were printed on yellowing paper; he was holding a glass of sparkling champagne or prosecco, smiling, handsome, charming, as much then as he was now. So he had known Holly for a while, it seemed. There was a photo of him and Holly’s late husband, mid-chat, and Tinsley’s eyes seemed strangely intense in his smiling face. Ricky looked at the photo for a while before moving on. He noted some of the names beneath some of the photos, not on purpose, but just because he could. Bernard McClintock, a short portly man with a ruddy face and thick moustache, poured into a three-piece suit. He held a tumbler of whiskey or scotch in a meaty hand. Francesca Norris, a woman built like a willow tree, long-limbed and elegant. In the background of the latter stood Tinsley and Holly, out of focus, their eyes locked as they spoke with urgency. Ricky continued onward.

Newspaper articles popped up about Holly’s husband’s murder a few years back. They began with headlines involving the words _Tragic, Heartbreaking, Too Soon,_ but swiftly were overtaken with other words such as _Child Abuser, Molester, Convicted Posthumously._ His eyes landed on a familiar name in an article.

_Mr Cecile Tinsley, 28, who represented Mr Horsley in court, has successfully fought to charge his murderer and former mistress, Ms Francesca Norris, 28, with three years in prison and a one thousand dollar fine. The leniency was permitted by Justice James Boyko on the basis of Mr Horsley’s past crimes._

There was a courtroom sketch as the centrepiece of the article, and there, just out of focus, hastily drawn, lightly shaded, was Tinsley. His nose had been drawn in two quick pencil strokes, leaving an appropriately pointed end, and his hands and fingers were given the elegant, slender length that they had in reality; they were in front of his chest, spread slightly, mid-gesture. The defendant was drawn clearly with strong shades and clean lines, and there was a slight smile on her face. In the judge’s stand was none other than the Mayor, black-robed, white-haired. Ricky’s gaze flickered between the three, but came back to Tinsley, over and over.

He got copies of articles and photos he wanted before getting a call sent through to the station, asking the secretary to check on Francesca Norris’ situation. She had been released the previous year for good behaviour. He asked for her address, and the secretary gave the most recently recorded one.

“Oh, it’s in a really nice part of town,” she gushed. “Really central, near the river? You know those ones?”

He was already getting to his feet. “I’m sure I will when I see them.”

* * *

The door opened and out wafted the scent of vanilla. Ricky stared at the woman who had opened the door. She was taller than him by a good amount, had a thin, androgynous figure, bright eyes, black skin, and her hair was pinned atop her head quite elaborately indeed, with winding braids. She wore a cream satin wraparound blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, black heels, and a lot of gold jewelry - it hung around her neck, dangled from her ears, wrapped around her wrists. She arched an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

Ricky cleared his throat. “Hi. I’m Detective Goldsworth-” A flash of his badge. “-and I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

“...About what? I was about to leave.” She gestured down at herself. "As you can see. I have a lunch to go to."

“It's about the death of the late Mr Horsley.”

She put her hand back on the door. “I served my time. I’m done with all of that.”

“Just a few really quick questions,” said Ricky hastily. “Nothing crazy. It’s just to round some stuff off back at the station. We’re not reopening anything.”

A long pause. “Fine. If that’s all.” She spoke with a hint of a French accent. “Come in.”

Ricky followed her down the airy hallway and into a generously-sized sitting room. The floor was a light hardwood, the furniture was sleek and smooth, and the wall had framed pieces of art on it. One of them was familiar. He stared at it.

“Why did you frame your own courtroom sketch?”

She shrugged, picking up the telephone across the room. “In case I ever need it.”

Ricky sat on the plush couch while she made her phone call. She spoke in French, and her face betrayed no singular emotion for the duration of the short conversation, although her gaze did keep flickering to him every few seconds. She put the phone back into the receiver.

“Coffee?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

She took two shiny white mugs with handles styled like snakes from a cupboard and placed the first one under the perculator. It whirred to life. “So what did you want to ask me, detective?”

“Just one thing, really. How did you know Holly Horsley? You were in a few photos from her fundraisers.”

“I used to help mind the children,” came the simple answer. “Milk or sugar?”

“Both. And you were having an affair with her husband, right?”

This got an irritated: “Yes, I guess.”

“You guess?” His eyes didn’t leave her face even as she handed his coffee to him. “Look, I’m not gonna judge. I mean, I can’t. Been there, done that. And I’m not _proud_ of it, but it happened, so you can talk to me in a bit more detail, right?”

She fixed him with a flat look. “How much more detail.”

He went quiet. “How did you kill him.”

“It’s all in the records.”

“No, but _how._ No offense, but you don’t look like you could have killed a man five times your weight.”

She checked her watch, its gold face gleaming. Then she smiled at him with pearly teeth. “Fine. I’ll tell you it all from the start. Hope you have half an hour or so to spare.”

* * *

Tinsley waited until the corridor was empty before crouching down to check the lock type. It was, as he had expected, a tumbler lock. He took his lockpicks from his back pocket, a set about the size of a wallet. He needed them in case he ever forgot the key to his office, or the key to his filing cabinets. At least that’s what he told people when they asked.

He had to work quickly, while the hall was empty. He stayed crouched down, slipping the tension wrench into the lock before easing the pick in. He had become quite a dab hand at this activity; it was much more of an art than a science, and required a gentle, sensitive touch. The door was swiftly unlocked, and Tinsley pocketed his pick set before stepping inside. He closed the door behind him.

The apartment wasn’t anything awe-inducing. It was about a quarter of the size of Tinsley’s, and much darker, much less refined. The door had opened straight into the kitchen-sitting room. A pile of papers sat on the small, circular kitchen table, left open. Tinsley flipped through them for a few minutes, sitting down and crossing his legs before starting at the notebooks. The detective's handwriting was surprisingly neat for someone who lived in such a disaster of an apartment. His eyes narrowed at the contents of one of the notebooks, and he sat forwards, examining the newspaper articles about Holly, the photos of her, of him, of Francesca, the clear signs of snooping. Tinsley pressed his lips in a firm line, still squinting at the notebook. Then he stood up and tidied the papers, but not too much, as they weren't particularly tidy when he came in. His suspicions were confirmed. He should leave.

He poked his head into the bedroom, just out of curiosity. The bed was unmade, duvet thrown asunder. A hideous tie or two lay crumpled on the floor, the type that he had noticed the detective enjoyed wrapping around his neck. Tinsley stared at the wardrobe which was probably full of such ties. He wanted to set it on fire and raze it to ashes. He opened one of the doors; shirts and waistcoats on hangers, and ties strewn haphazardly across them. He took hold of the end of one of the shirts, bunching up the fabric in his fist, bringing it to his nose and breathing in deeply. It smelled like him, the subtle cologne he wore. Tinsley let go of it, closing the wardrobe over again.

He sat on the side of the bed, pulling open the drawers on the bedside locker, one by one, rifling through them. A broken cigarette tin, some tattered books, some nickels, and a scrunched up note with faded pencil letters. Tinsley squinted at the words; it seemed like some morning-after note, with instructions left as to how to use the shower and how to make sure the door locks upon leaving. _Classy, Goldsworth._ He dropped the note back into the drawer and took out the books, browsing through them for a few minutes. Nothing but thrillers and crime novels. Figures. He put it back in. There were no pajamas visible around the room, although Ricky did seem like the type of person to sleep naked. Tinsley hoped he was. There was something enticing about the image, the vulnerability. He ran a hand over the sheets, smoothing them down against the mattress underneath. Then he stood up and lingered a moment before leaving.

* * *

Dinner in Holly's was a weekly occurrence, and more akin to a meeting than anything else. It was essential that all three attend; Tinsley, the Mayor, and Holly herself. The food was very rarely touched, and instead smoke gradually filled the room from many pensive cigarettes. It must not be assumed that these three people were friends. They were simply three individuals who had gotten themselves tangled up in the same net. Perhaps they had an underlying fondness for each other. Perhaps not. They were discussing a certain detective and his recent interest into their internal affairs, and Tinsley's discoveries in this certain detective's apartment. Ricky had been poking around into their business, doing the equivalent of breaking into a filing cabinet and rifling through document after document stamped with a strong red CONFIDENTIAL. Perhaps he didn't know this. Perhaps he did.

"We can do what we did to his mother," said the Mayor, pausing in cutting up his beef. He was the only one of the three who ever had a go at his food. "Turn the boy away, deny, and treat him like a paranoid madman. He'll get embarrassed and he'll stop. It will be fine."

Tinsley reluctantly took his cigarette from his mouth in order to mutter in a monotone: "He won't get embarrassed. He doesn't have any shame."

"And you know this how?"

"I just do."

The cigarette returned to his mouth like a key to a door. Locked tight. The Mayor gave Tinsley a sidelong look, irritated, that Tinsley returned blatantly, turning his head to stare right back. The Mayor went back to his dinner with a 'hmph'.

"And what would you suggest we do otherwise, Tinsley?" Holly poured two scotches and one vodka. She placed the latter in front of the Mayor. "Or do I need to guess?"

Tinsley shrugged. "The usual."

"We can't do 'the usual'. He's a cop. Unfortunately." She sat down in her seat at the head of the table. To her right sat Tinsley, legs crossed, smoking moodily. To her left the Mayor continued eating. "And he's young, and from what I've heard, he's a bit of a fighter too. We have to admit to ourselves that this is a new type of... obstacle."

The Mayor swallowed his mouthful of potato and gravy and said: "Cops can be bribed. If that doesn't work, intimidation."

"Bribing him might just encourage him to keep poking around. Intimidation could backfire horribly. He's a cop, as I said already." Holly turned her drink on the table, round and round. The jeweled rings glimmered on her fingers. "I say we remain patient. If we act normal, he might believe himself to be wasting his time."

"Have either of you talked to him?" said Tinsley, giving them each a dry look. "As in, had a full conversation? He's a complete moron, yes, but he's smart. Sharp. Quick on his feet. So the only way to ensure our arrangement remains intact is to treat him to-" A wave of a hand, mildly flamboyant. "-the usual."

A rustle of feathers from the large cage in the corner, and a squawked: "The usual!"

Tinsley rolled his eyes, glowering over his shoulder at the bird. "I hate that son of a bitch. Scares the hell out of me every time it opens its stupid beak mouth."

The parrot flapped its brilliant blue wings, shuffled up and down its perch. "The usual!"

"Shut up!"

"Tinsley, quiet." Holly rolled her eyes, continuing on. "How will we settle this? We can't vote. We're all prejudiced one way or another."

Tinsley smiled wryly. "Democracy, hm?"

The Mayor put down his knife and fork, picked up his napkin and wiped at his mouth. "Get one of the children. They're the only truly innocent things on this planet."

Holly went to the brass bell on the wall and rang it rapidly. A maid appeared within a minute, poking her head in the door, and swiftly left on orders to fetch one of the children, one aged between two and three. Tinsley got to his feet, crossing to the window to stare onto the lawns outside. He'd crossed those lawns many a night, in many states of being, a stumbling mess, mentally and physically. The thought of himself in such a state was oddly intriguing. He could never quite remember the feelings that accompanied him across the lawn, but he was sure he'd feel them again soon.

The door opened and the maid came in, a toddler holding her hand. A young boy. Tinsley recognized him vaguely, but he'd always found it difficult to tell the children apart. He watched as the child went straight to Holly and onto her lap. She smiled and cooed and gave his cheeks and nose a playful pinch. The Mayor smiled. Tinsley felt as if he should be smiling too, but he didn't really see why. The child elicited no paternal instincts in him. He opened the window and leaned out to flick the cigarette away, if only to see the sparks fly when it hit the stone below. He remained leaning into the cool air for a moment before he stepped back and shut the window.

Holly was talking to the child. "Now, we know that Superman can't save the city without Clark Kent, isn't that right?"

The child nodded.

"So if someone was going to try and tell everyone that Clark Kent was Superman, what would you do?"

"...Stop them?"

"Yes, yes, of course." She bounced the child on her knee, lightly. "How? Would you try and ask them to stop? Or would you perhaps..." She looked at the Mayor, raising her brows helplessly."...go a bit further?"

The child pondered this. Tinsley stayed at a distance, hands clasped behind his back. He tended not to have a good impact on kids, so it was safer he stay unnoticed.

"I would do what Superman would do and ask them to stop," said the child.

Tinsley rolled his eyes, his shoulders slumping. "This is a waste of time. The kid doesn't know shit about ethics."

"Language!" snapped Holly.

"And _knowing_ ethics doesn't tend to matter, Tinsley," said the Mayor with a stern look from under his bushy white brows. "You're a lawyer. You know the code of ethics inside out, and yet you're not exactly the most ethical man I know. What matters about ethics is your actions, not what you reel off in court."

Tinsley fixed him with a cool, level look. "Try not to jump too eagerly to put me in my place next time. Might make an unfortunate habit out of it." He inclined his head. "Would be a pity if a judge in court forgot about his impartiality, wouldn't it be."

Holly sighed harshly, pushing at the child to go to the maid. "Margaret, fetch me Doctor Fear. Tell him it's urgent."

Fear arrived promptly, edging into the room, moving towards Holly and the Mayor. Tinsley watched him, smiling, amused. What a cowardly little man. But, unfortunately, his vote was necessary, and of course, he didn't vote for the usual. He went with Holly's choice; patience. Tinsley gritted his teeth, but the smile remained on his face, lips pressed together. When the meeting ended, Tinsley followed Fear out, quietly, so quietly the doctor didn't even notice until Tinsley had taken him by the scruff of his jumper and given him a sharp shake, hauling him back from his car.

"You little fool," he hissed, his face inches from Fear's waxy pale one. "What the fuck was that?"

"What?" squeaked Fear.

"All you had to do was go with what I wanted and all of this shit would be over with tonight." He shoved Fear forwards, the little man stumbling against his car. "Get out of here, you-"

"Is there a problem?" asked the Mayor from the doorway above them.

Tinsley gave him a sidelong scowl before going to his own car and yanking open the door and getting in. All of a sudden, he had somewhere to be.

* * *

Fran opened the door. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Haven’t been around in a while, I guess.”

“Yeah. So why are you here now?”

Tinsley shrugged, leaning against the door frame. “Sound of your voice earlier. Brought me back.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not in a relationship right now, if that’s a turn-off for you.”

“Come on.”

“Well it’s either that or something has happened to you.” She tilted her head aside, condescending. “The only times you want to fuck are if you can ruin someone else’s relationship or if you’re angry. So why are you angry?”

He stayed leaning against the door frame, head resting against it, quite brooding altogether. He picked at the wood of the frame, lowering his hand when Fran slapped at it. “I’m not angry. I just…” He straightened up, hands on his hips. “I’m a young man. In my prime. I just want to- I just want to _fuck._ So just… yeah. I just want to have sex. With you. Now.”

She sighed wearily, checking her watch. "It's late. I have to be up early."

"That never used to be a problem."

Fran rolled her eyes. "Fine. Come in. But we're only doing mouth and hand stuff." She threw him a dry look over her shoulder. "I have to be able to walk in the morning."

"Yeah. Fine." Tinsley closed the door behind him, pulling his tie off over his head. "Where do you have to be in the morning?"

"You don't need to know," she said. "I don't exactly want you back in my life _too_ much."

Tinsley caught hold of her in the sitting room, pulling her into a kiss, hungry. He guided her back to the couch, laying her down on it, climbing on top, still kissing her, but his mind was running away. Ricky had been in this room. He had sat somewhere on this couch, perhaps right where they were now. He had spoken in his smoky voice, and smiled his perfect smile, and observed everything around him with his brilliant black eyes. Tinsley's brows drew together into a frown, thinking of those eyes, and the wink they had thrown him; salacious, enticing, blatantly so. How those eyes had stared at him as Ricky had drawn the spoon from between his lips, a gesture Tinsley had felt in his hip pocket. Ricky had matched him word for word, move for move, and the entire time it seemed he had been laughing, enjoying the thrill of it. Francesca suddenly let out a curse, pulling away.

"Ow! Shit, dude, you just bit me!"

Tinsley blinked a few times. "Oh. Sorry."

Fran touched her lip. "Shit, man. I think I'm bleeding. Get off."

"Sorry."

He sat on the couch as Fran went off to her bathroom, muttering about how she couldn't have a bloodied lip in the morning. Tinsley raked a hand through his hair, a horribly tight sensation suddenly in his chest. He got to his feet and snatched up his tie and left without a word.


	4. Fraternizing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A voir dire is when the jury is chosen, where the lawyers can ask jurors questions to try and find out if they might have any bias in the case, and if they do they're dismissed  
> An NDA is a nondisclosure agreement  
> :)

Tinsley woke early. He had a long day ahead of him. A voir dire first thing, so he had to be at the courthouse by eight. He got dressed, in a suit and shirt and tie, and fixed his hair in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Then he examined his face. The mark on his lip was almost gone, but there was a slight bruise around his left eye. He dabbed on some concealer with his ring finger; it hurt only a little. It should be fine. He had just walked into a door, or maybe into a shelf. He'd decide which one, if anyone asked. He polished his glasses on a piece of tissue before slipping them on. Then he straightened up and smiled softly. There he was. There was the Tinsley people were allowed to see.

He wasn't hungry, so he just grabbed a coffee on the way to work. He went into the same shop where he and Ricky had had their chat. He felt a slight disappointment when Ricky didn't turn up this time. He wanted to see more of Ricky Goldsworth. The guy was interesting, and not exactly rough on the eyes. But Ricky didn't poke his pretty head in the door, so Tinsley got his coffee and continued on.

The voir dire was for the jury for the posthumous trial of a murdered man found only the night before. Strangled in the middle of the night in his sitting room by an unknown assailant. No signs of breaking and entering. A broken glass and a toppled couch were the only two things out of place in the room. There had been a bit of a struggle, it seemed.

Tinsley was representing the dead man, as he had extended his services to the mourning family, as generous as he always was in such cases. The Mayor was to preside over the trial. The Mayor was sitting above them right now as the jury settled themselves. Tinsley looked at the people. What a terrifically normal bunch.

He stood up and moved towards the witness stand, where the first juror sat. The door to the courtroom opened quietly and shut just as quietly. Tinsley threw an irritated look over his shoulder at the newcomer, wondering who the hell was bothered to get out of their beds and come to such a mundane event at eight-thirty in the morning. There was an elderly person or two in the rows of benches, and a couple of people who probably just hadn't been able to sleep, the usuals. Tinsley barely managed to keep his face neutral at the sight of Ricky Goldsworth strolling right up to the front row of benches and sitting himself down. The detective sat back and crossed his legs and rested his elbows on the back of the bench either side of him before smiling at him. Tinsley stared.

"Mr Tinsley," said the Mayor with a slight frown. "Please proceed."

Tinsley turned his head to look up at the Mayor, his face blank. "Sure. Sorry."

He had to regain his composure now. He had to put on a bit of a show. He turned back to the man on the witness stand, an older man of about sixty who claimed to be entirely impartial to the person being accused of the dead man's murder. Tinsley knew this wasn't true. So he grilled him, asked questions so sharp and stinging they burned, cut down every lie he uttered with minimum effort, chipped away at him like a sculptor to a block of marble, until he was shaped into exactly what Tinsley knew he was; an ex-coworker of the defendant. The man admitted that he was indeed an ex-coworker. The Mayor dismissed him on the spot. Tinsley turned back to his table, pretended to sort through a document or two, and threw Ricky a sly wink, almost as if to say, _you're next_. Ricky didn't seem amused. His gaze was flat.

Tinsley didn't take his time leaving the courtroom when he was done. He packed up his things into his briefcase and shrugged on his long black coat and pulled on his gloves before heading outside, past the reception desk in the foyer, past the pillars at the top of the steps outside the building. He wasn't alone. People were beginning to file in as the day started increasing in pace. Ricky was waiting among them, leaning against one of the pillars. He smiled at Tinsley, a come-hither look in his eyes. Tinsley almost gave in. Then he just turned his head away and continued on down the steps. He was hungry all of a sudden, and decided that maybe he did want breakfast after all.

Ricky caught up with him a few steps down. "Incredible performance, Tinsley. All for me?"

Tinsley didn't look at him, just continued descending the steps. "What has you buzzing around here so early, detective?"

"Cinema isn't open yet. And anyway, the cinema is much more expensive. And at least I can bring my own snacks into a courtroom."

"You most certainly cannot do that."

Ricky laughed, bringing Tinsley to a slow halt. "Oh yeah? And what would you do if I did. Drag me back in there and charge me with eating?"

Tinsley rolled his eyes. "It would be referred to as disorderly conduct. And I might get a bit further if I charged you with stalking."

"Why?" Ricky pushed up on his tiptoes before rocking back, hands in his coat pockets, perfectly troublesome. "You think it'd be worth your while to find a way to keep me at a distance?"

Tinsley's eyes scanned his face, and then he smiled softly. "No. I don't do things I might regret."

Ricky didn't seem to know how to respond to this. He raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a bit of an accent?"

"Yes. My father is French."

"Oh?" Ricky's eyes narrowed a tad. "Can you speak it?"

"Yes," said Tinsley, holding his suspicious gaze. "I'm bilingual."

"Are you, now." Ricky eyed him warily, thinking back to Francesca Norris and her phone conversation. "That's interesting."

"I wouldn't think you'd find it _that_ interesting," said Tinsley, adopting that alarmingly innocent persona he could seemingly call to hand at any time. "You can speak Spanish, can't you?"

"Yeah." Ricky paused. "Do you know a Fran-"

A shout from the top step made them both turn. It was Darla, the secretary. "Detective Goldsworth! Your mom is on the phone! She says it's important!"

Ricky looked at Tinsley, still somewhat suspicious, before turning and bounding back up the steps. Tinsley didn't hesitate in following. An important phone call from that nosy newspaper editor to her equally nosy son? He couldn't miss it.

By the time he reached the desk Ricky had the phone to his ear. The little bastard was fit, Tinsley would give him that. He hid his own heavy breaths, refusing to act as if he was exerted at all in any way. Ricky was speaking in Spanish, head ducked, both hands holding the phone. He sighed heavily.

 _"Mom, I'm busy. I'm with that lawyer. Yeah, the hot one. No, it's not going to go anywhere, I promise. He's a total dick. I know. Yeah. Yeah, he's beside me right now. Being a pain in the ass. Did you know he can speak French, and so can that woman I was telling you about last night?"_ A heavy sigh. _"Mom, you remember. You do! I can't say her name because the lawyer is standing right beside me!"_ A pause. He straightened up. _"Really? Shit. Okay, I'll be right there."_

He handed the phone back to Darla with a smile and a thanks. Then he turned away and left. Tinsley, again, followed.

"Where are you off to now, detective?"

A sharp laugh. "And you call me the stalker."

"I'm simply wondering if you'd like a lift to wherever you're going." A charming smile. "I'll be passing the station."

"I'm not going to the station." Ricky stopped at the bottom of the stone steps, looking up at Tinsley beside him. "I'm going to my mom's offices."

"The ones that are just around the corner from the station?" Tinsley clapped a hand onto Ricky's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "C'mon. I'll give you a lift. No hard feelings, right?"

Ricky eyed the hand with distaste. "...Right."

A smile. "Right. So come along."

The car whirred, the engine a smooth drive. The radio was off. Ricky wished that it was on. The silence was oppressive in its weight. Tinsley had one hand on the wheel, the other out the window, managing a cigarette. He seemed unbothered by the quiet. He hadn’t even spared Ricky a glance for the last ten minutes. Ricky felt like speaking up, just in case he was forgotten and Tinsley drove on past the station. But the second he opened his mouth, Tinsley opened his, so that their voices clashed for a split second before Tinsley barrelled on.

“Do you want a cigarette, Ricky?” Tinsley pushed the tin along the dashboard to him. “Help yourself.”

Ricky shook his head, avoiding looking at the shiny inlaid silver of the tin. “No, thanks. I gave them up.”

“Congratulations.” The word was flat and derisive, quite the opposite of its meaning. There was a silence for a minute or so. “Did you know that over half of cigarette addicts relapse?”

Ricky clenched his jaw, forcing it to relax so he could say: “No, I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true. It’s quite common for people to be unable to quit something once they’re hooked on it.” A pause. “Crazy how your own mind can work against you like that.”

They drove on in silence. Tinsley didn’t retrieve his cigarettes from the dashboard. Ricky’s fingers fidgeted on his lap, his throat worked. He was craving one. But he wouldn’t. When he threw the lawyer a sidelong glance, he thought he could see a hint of a self-satisfied smile, not on the man’s mouth but in his eyes, in the way they were narrowed ever so slightly, glittering with mischief. Ricky turned his head away to glare out the window. His foot tapped impatiently for the remaining ten minutes.

When Tinsley pulled up on the curb, Ricky got out without a word, and he slammed the door behind him hard enough to shake the car before storming off into the building. Tinsley watched him go, finishing his cigarette slowly. Then he flicked the end out the window and pulled back onto the road with a deft spin of the steering wheel.

* * *

Lucy was gushing from the moment he stepped into her office." Come on, come in, sit down. Now I know I told myself I wouldn't go back to investigating this stuff, but I can't exactly ignore it now, if _you've_ noticed it too. That just proves I wasn't being paranoid, right?"

"Yeah. Sure." Ricky sat across the desk from her; between them sat a tape recorder. "What did you get?"

"Someone handed something in to me. A tape, and they-"

"Who? Who's they?"

Lucy pressed her lips into an apologetic line. "They had me sign an NDA. I can't tell you, no matter how much I'd like to. But nonetheless, it's invaluable." She turned the tape recorder to face her, pressing down a button. It clicked, whirred to life. "Now listen carefully. It sounds as if it was recorded from a bit of a distance, but it's still possible to hear what they're saying."

Ricky rested his elbows on the desk, leaning in, head cocked, gaze distant as he focused on listening. There was a bit of rustling, a bit of crackling as someone shifted about. The voices were murmurs at first, swiftly growing to distinguishable words as the recorder was nudged towards a crack in a door, or an open window.

"I don’t know," said a woman with a crisp English accent. "We’ve gotten it wrong a few times now, acted too hastily. What if this one is the same?” 

The next voice had Ricky's blood drop multiple degrees. "We all make mistakes, Holly. You’ve made some big mistakes, haven’t you? Fraternizing with the enemy isn’t as easy as you thought it would be.” 

“No, it's not. But my _suggestions_ do not mean you can act so recklessly!”

A shrug was evident in the sudden drawl of the words. "Well he came to me in the end, instead of it having to be the other way around. I just grabbed an opportunity, didn't I?"

"Perhaps you should stop grabbing them. You'll get us all in a staggering amount of trouble if you don't learn to control yourself."

"I can control myself."

"No you can't. Fear said as much."

"Fear is a stupid old man, and whatever medication he had me on practically made me brain-dead." Tinsley tutted. "I won't go back to him. Now if that's everything, I'll be on my way."

A sigh. "Tinsley, just think about what I've said. Just think about it."

"Sure will."

The sound of a door closing, and the crackling and shifting again, and then the tape ended. Ricky raised his head, staring at Lucy, who stared back expectantly, brows raised.

"That was the lawyer," said Ricky. "And Holly Horsley."

"Yes, it was." Lucy took the tape from the recorder, slotting it into a manila envelope. "Strange conversation, don't you think?"

"What I think is that neither of us is being paranoid."

"Exactly."

"But what can I do if you can't tell me who gave you that?"

"You can look into Holly more closely," said Lucy, unlocking the bottom drawer of her desk and placing the envelope in before closing it and locking it again. "I went to high school with her, you know. She was always rich, but she was never one to be charitable. Not like she is now, opening up a whole orphanage. No, I wouldn't have expected that from her in a million years." She sat back. "That's all I can tell you."

Ricky nodded, getting to his feet. "That's plenty." He hurried around the desk to kiss her on the cheek before heading for the door. "Thanks, mom."

She waved at him. "Be careful, okay?"

He would try, but it wasn't his specialty.


	5. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year y'all

Ricky stood across the desk from him, impatient. The lawyer was sat at an angle, legs crossed, phone to his ear as he chatted away, friendly, understanding.

“Yeah, I completely agree. It’s best if we go down that route. No doubt at all. It’s actually the first thing I suggested to- Yep, mmhmm. Of course.” He took out his mobile, and Ricky watched as Tinsley dialed a number before hitting call. “And I- Oh, sorry about that beeping, Patrick, it’s just another call coming through. I have to take it real quick, it’s urgent. Yeah, no problem. I’ll call you back in an hour.” He hung up on the desk phone, and then on his mobile phone, before finally spinning his chair back around to face Ricky. He smiled, charming. “Afternoon, detective.”

Ricky’s eyes were narrowed somewhat. “That was very unprofessional of you.”

“It’s called time management. It’s a necessity in my line of work. I get so many…” A slow once-over. “…unwanted callers, who insist on using up so much of my precious time.” He got to his feet, his chair spinning slowly by itself as he crossed to the water jug on the table against the wall. “Drink?”

“No. I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your precious time.”

“How considerate.” Tinsley kept his back to him as he poured the water into a tall, slim glass. The ice clinked as it fell in. “What is it you’re here for?”

Ricky watched him go back to his desk; he moved with a quiet confidence, shoulders back yet lax, and his steps were surprisingly soft despite his stature. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about some strange patterns in your cases over the years.”

Tinsley took a mouthful of his water before setting the glass down on his desk, his other hand in his trouser pocket. “I thought you just said you didn’t want to waste my time.”

Ricky gave him a slow, unimpressed blink. “Would you rather me schedule an appointment.”

“I’d rather you get yourself a hobby, detective. Find some way to keep yourself entertained during your downtime. Painting. Embroidery. Tinder, maybe?”

“Funny.”

“I’m not entirely joking.”

“So is that what you do on your downtime, hm?”

“I don’t have downtime. You can’t charge what I charge if you have downtime.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow. “It really is all about money for you guys, isn’t it.”

“It’s a large part of it, yes. About thirty, maybe forty percent of why I do what I do. I mean, I didn’t go through law school to come out at the end and not make substantial amounts of cash, anyway.” Tinsley gestured at one of the seats across from him before sitting back down in his chair. “What did you do in university, detective?”

Ricky sat, but reluctantly, staying on the edge of his seat, elbows on his knees. “Investigative journalism.”

“Well, that does explain a lot.” Tinsley sat back, crossing his legs in a figure four. “I've yet to meet an investigative journalist who isn't a pain in the ass."

"It's an entry requirement."

"You're so funny."

Ricky looked him over. "And you did criminal law, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Where? Harvard or something?"

"No, not Harvard. But nearby." Tinsley skipped on in the conversation, a tactic which he was as of yet unaware would pique Ricky's interest in the subject being avoided. "Your mother is Lucy Goldsworth, isn’t she? The editor of that paper?”

“Yes.”

“That explains even more.”

Ricky tilted his head an inch. “Which means?”

Tinsley’s fingers rested lightly over his mouth, his eyes serious as he watched Ricky. “I’m sure you’re aware of her interest in me already, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. She had some suspicions about some cases I was involved in not too long ago. Began poking around, not entirely dissimilar as to how you’re acting now. No one would entertain her. She backed off sooner rather than later, which was a wise decision.” Tinsley let a heavy, meaningful pause set in, before finishing with a quiet: “Are you wise, detective?”

Ricky waited for a moment before suddenly smiling brightly. “Absolutely not. In any way at all. But I’ll take all your hints as a big fat no to answering my questions.” He got to his feet, extending a hand across the table. “Thank you _so_ much for your precious time, Mr Tinsley.”

Tinsley stared at him before also getting to his feet. He circled the desk to Ricky, looming over him for a strange moment before he took Ricky’s hand in a strong grip, seeing Ricky's smile vanish at the touch. “Lovely to meet you in a more formal setting, detective. But try not to make a habit out of it."

"Out of what? Being formal?" Ricky's smile reappeared. "Do you prefer me more informal, is that it?"

Tinsley's face was flat. "I prefer you when you're not popping into my office unexpectedly just to irritate me."

"Oh, I'll try very hard not to do it again, then. But I might find it difficult, since you made it such a delightful experience for me."

Tinsley didn't laugh. "Get out."

Ricky flashed him a smile over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "I'll see you around."

"Mm. Unfortunately."

Ricky didn't really mind having to leave. He had a college to find, and a past lecturer or two, hopefully.

* * *

Ricky wandered right up to the doors, on which were pressed the words _School of Law._ He took his ID from his back pocket, holding it in his hand as he passed through the doors. A reception desk sat to the left, and a man sat behind it, with horn-rimmed glasses à la Gregory Peck. He was typing away, sitting straight-backed, almost unblinking as he watched the words he was typing appear on the paper of the typewriter, reflected in his glasses. Ricky went right up to the desk with a smile. He didn’t get a first glance, never mind a second. He cleared his throat. No ‘hello’. No ‘can I help you?’ Just the incessant _tack-tack-tack_ of the typewriter. Ricky swiftly lost his patience.

“HELLO SIR.”

The secretary glanced up at the loud, abrupt greeting. “Excuse me, these are offices. People are working.”

“Well you’re not. Because part of your work is helping people like me, isn’t it?” Ricky showed his ID in its black holder, the badge glinting. He snapped it closed. “You have records of past students?”

The secretary blinked. “Yeah. Why do you need to see them?”

“I need to talk to a lecturer who taught a one Cecile Tinsley. Any of them who taught him.”

“Yeah. Why.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow. “The fuck’s your problem, man? I’m just doing my job here. So how about you take a page from my book and do your job too.”

“I-”

A door creaked open on the corridor, a woman poking her head out. She looked to be in her late fifties, with blonde hair largely transitioning to grey. “What’s going on out here?”

Ricky half-turned to look at her. He took out his badge again, showing it. “I’m trying to find a past lecturer for a class maybe about ten or twelve years ago? Criminal law, I’d say.”

She adjusted her round glasses and narrowed her eyes at him, warily. “I was lecturing back then, yes.”

Ricky perked up, turning to face her more directly. “Does the name Cecile Tinsley ring a bell?”

A strange look passed over her face, as if she had been expecting Ricky’s visit for a long time. “Yes. Yes, I remember him. You’d best come in, detective.” She spoke to the secretary. “Get us two coffees, Alan.”

Ricky watched her with open curiosity before following into her office. The name plaque on the door read _Dr Martina Morris._ It was a cramped space, although it shouldn’t have been; bookshelves lined the walls, full to the brim, books laid horizontally atop the vertical, and even more books piled on the ground. She gestured for him to take a seat, moving around her L-shaped desk to sit in her chair. She pressed her lips together in a sad smile.

“What is it you’re here for, detective?”

He watched her face. There was something on her mind, something troublesome. He decided to lie, just a little. “...I think you already know.”

A quiet sigh. “I just… I always knew he was too interested in the morbid cases I taught. He had a... macabre interest in the dark side of the law. And he was bright, you know. Extremely intelligent. He could have pursued a career in any part of the law - family, finance, property - but I always knew he was going to pursue criminal prosecution. He had a strange fixation on death and who deserves it, and when.”

“You found him disturbing.”

“I found him unsettling, yes. Just a bit…”

“Intense?”

She looked at him. “Yes. Intense.”

The lecturer got to her feet, crossing to the filing cabinets shoved in behind the furthest bookshelves. She unlocked it with a key attached to her belt, crouching down to rifle through the bottom drawer, withdrawing some pages stapled together.

“I keep some essays I get handed in,” she murmured, crossing back towards her desk with slow steps. Her eyes followed the words on the page in front of her. “If I find them odd. It happens more often than you’d think.”

Ricky’s eyes were bright. “Is that one he did?”

“Yes. Yes, it was quite interesting, if at times disturbing.”

The door opened, and the secretary came in with two coffees, setting them down on the desk. He left just as silently as he’d entered. Ricky took a taste. It was much too hot, and tasted like burnt water. He swallowed it with a scowl and said: “You should fire that guy.”

The lecturer blinked, then grinned. “Yes, he’s a bit useless, but he’s the son of the head of the department, so that’s that.”

Ricky smiled, before dropping his gaze back to the essay in her hands. “Can I have that?”

She hesitated, looking down at it. “What has Cecile done, exactly?”

“Nothing. Yet.”

“What?” She went pale. “Then why did you come in here acting as if you were investigating a- a murder or something?”

“I didn’t. You just… assumed.” He got to his feet, a curious look on his face. “Murder, hm? Most foul. You always thought he’d be capable of doing something along those lines?”

The lecturer straightened up, eyes narrowing. “What is this investigation for, then.”

“A private thing. I worked on his last case and some things just aren’t matching up.” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a hunch. Identical to the hunch you’ve had since you’ve met him ten or so years ago? How curious.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s pretty hard to miss, isn’t he? I think I’d notice if he was following me around.”

“He’s smart, detective. Very smart. He graduated among the top five in the course, and on top of that he did languages; advanced French, Spanish, some-”

“Spanish?!” Ricky’s face fell, his mouth dropping open. His face was already beginning to burn. “What? What level?”

“He graduated with fluency, I believe. Bilingual in French, but I think one of his parents is French.” She gave him an odd look. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t respond for a long moment, stunned, as if he’d been slapped. Eventually he nodded at the essay in her hands. “Can I have that now? Even just a copy will be cool. Thanks in advance.”

She gave him an odd look, for he was acting odd, after all. "Okay. Just... give me a moment to get it copied for you."

* * *

Tinsley’s office door was open, and the office itself was empty. Ricky stood in it for a moment, hands on his hips, debating what to do. He had to find out if Tinsley could actually speak Spanish, if he could understand it. He closed his eyes at the memories of everything he said to Lucy on the phone, right in front of the lawyer’s face. And each time Tinsley had stood in passive silence, watching Ricky with heavy-lidded eyes, not frowning, not smiling, but listening.

“Can I help you, detective?”

Ricky turned to find the Mayor in the doorway, a bushy white brow raised. He wasn't dressed in his black robes, and looked strangely normal in a shirt and tie, a powder blue jumper, and black slacks. “Yeah. Yeah, you could. Where’s Tinsley?”

“Working from home, I believe.” His pale blue eyes narrowed. “You’re looking for him?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Excellent. We could help each other.” The Mayor beckoned for Ricky to follow, leading him down the corridor toward his own office. “He left behind some work, said it was important, but I have to leave for a meeting. You can drop it around to him for me, yes?”

Ricky nodded. “Yeah. Cool.”

“Very ‘cool’.” The Mayor handed him the writing pad, a leather one, zipped up. “This is his. I’ll write down his address.” He was already writing it, on a white post-it, in red pen. “Let me know when you’ve dropped it over, yes? Just give my office a call, leave a message if you have to.”

Ricky took the post-it, sticking it to the front of the writing pad, very eager all of a sudden. “Sure, will do.”

The second Ricky drove around the corner he stopped his car by the curb, unzipping the writing pad and resting it on the steering wheel. He cursed, flipping through the pages. Everything was in shorthand, little squiggles and dots and dashes. There was, however, a list of phone numbers. Ricky scribbled them down on a ripped-out notepad page before shoving the page into his back pocket, knowing full well that this was a massive breach of privacy, and delighting in it. He flipped further through the pages in the writing pad, and went still. There was a sketch in one of the corners, done lightly in pencil. It was quite good, but that wasn't why Ricky went still, staring. He did that because the sketch was of him. He smoothed the other papers aside, looking at the drawing, at how soft the pencil strokes were, how gentle. Then he closed over the writing pad, quick-sharp, his heart fluttering in his chest. He zipped it up and placed it on the passenger seat before starting the engine again and following the directions the Mayor had given him to Tinsley's home, repressing whatever had stirred in his chest. Instead, he wondered what kind of place Tinsley would live in. Probably some dark, abandoned castle on a perpetually stormy cliff, with candlelit corridors and water dripping from the stone ceilings, where Tinsley could stalk around in a long black cape to pounce on unsuspecting visitors.

It turned out to be an apartment in a wealthy part of town, which was infinitely more boring. Ricky was about to buzz the apartment number the Mayor had given him, but it turned out he didn't have to. A certain little doctor was scurrying towards the door from inside, a folder clutched to his chest. Fear opened the door and glanced at Ricky but other than that made no attempt at a greeting. He seemed very much on edge. Ricky caught hold of the door, holding it open as he watched Fear run off towards his car. Ricky shook his head in bewilderment before stepping into the lobby of the apartment block and letting the door shut behind him.

When he had made his way up in the elevator to Tinsley's door, he knocked loudly and deliberately. The sound of hard footsteps came from inside, and the door handle rattled. Tinsley's voice was angry, rough.

"What the hell do you-" He paused mid-sentence, staring at a stunned Ricky. "I... thought you were someone else. Apologies."

"It's fine."

Tinsley's eyes crawled over him before finding the writing pad. "Ah. That's for me." He put out a hand, and the pad was placed in it. Then he smiled, slyly. "I hope you didn't have a snoop."

Ricky smiled back, sweetly. "Oh, of course not."

Tinsley lingered. "So you're a detective-turned-messenger-boy now, are you?"

"Well, I was going to try and find you anyway. I wanted to ask you a question or two."

"Then by all means make yourself at home." Tinsley led the way into the apartment, spreading his arms, the writing pad still in one hand. He dumped it on the table. "Welcome to my humble abode, detective."

Ricky looked the place over, the smoothness, the shining surfaces, the view out over the city, and the doors that led off into different rooms. One door was half-open, revealing the signs of an office; a bookcase, half of a desk visible on which a soft gold light from a banker's lamp rested. He stopped at the island in the middle of the kitchen area, watching Tinsley make himself comfortable, tossing his tie aside with a flippant hand, unbuttoning his collar, rolling up his sleeves. Ricky wished he didn't do so; he carried the scruffy look just as well as the sleek. Worse than that, it made him seem more human.

Tinsley flipped open his tin of cigarettes, taking one out and placing it between his lips before turning to Ricky and saying: "Cigarette?"

Ricky's teeth gritted, and he looked him in the eye, seeing that mischievous flash again. "I've given them up. You know that. Or you have a terrible memory for a lawyer."

"Oh, silly me. I apologize." He lit his one, insouciant, before tossing the box of matches aside. It landed on the counter with a _tap,_ sliding a few inches _._ “Now, I have a feeling you didn’t just call around to say hello. So, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing. I wanted to do something for you.”

Tinsley looked over his shoulder at this, pushing open the balcony door. “Is that so.”

Ricky didn’t like his tone. Not at all. He swiftly moved on. “Yeah, I, uh, I didn’t know you could speak Spanish.”

This got an amused smile. “Yes. Quite fluently.”

“Then I probably owe you an apology for all the things I said around you.”

“Probably.” Tinsley leaned a shoulder against the door frame, one arm folded across his chest, the other managing his cigarette. “Are you going to give me one?”

Ricky raised an eyebrow. _Not now, I won’t._ “You have a pretty good poker face.”

“It’s necessary in my line of work.”

“I said some pretty mean things. You didn’t even bat an eye.”

“Not everything you said was mean.” Tinsley smiled at the slight flush that appeared on the other man’s face. _“A veces, muy coqueto.”_

Ricky let just a hint of a smile touch his mouth. “That’s why you didn’t let me know you understood, hm? To feed your ego.”

“Most certainly. It’s nice to know when someone thinks you attractive.” Tinsley took a pull on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose. “If it makes you feel any better, and although it pains me to say it, I think that you’re attractive too.”

Ricky didn’t reply. He didn’t quite like the turn this conversation had taken. He itched for a cigarette. “I just came to say sorry if I hurt your feelings with anything I said.”

“Don’t fuss about it.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay.” Tinsley remained in the balcony door, leaning against the frame, legs crossed at the ankles. “Goodbye, then.”

“Bye.”

Ricky turned away, moving back toward the door, and he knew he was being watched with each step. He stopped at the door to cast a quick glance back, and their eyes met with the same sensation as the touch of hand on hand. Tinsley raised his brows expectantly.

"Do you know any other languages?" asked Ricky.

"No. Just French and Spanish."

"And you're bilingual in French, yes?"

"Yes, I am."

"Do you know Francesca Norris?"

Tinsley nodded. "I do." He brought the cigarette to his lips. "Quite intimately, at one point in my life."

Ricky watched his face closely. "Until you put her behind bars."

"Yes. That was a bit of a bump in the road, but what can you do?" Tinsley smiled. "Life works in mysterious ways."

Ricky just watched him for another moment. Then his gaze drifted aside to the photographs on the wall, and he realized they weren't photographs. "What in hell are these?”

“Oh, my favourite hate mail. Some people just don't have a fondness for lawyers.” Tinsley smirked as he stubbed out his cigarette, and he seemed strangely proud of the framed letters. “I still haven’t decided which one is my crème de la crème. I like the more detailed ones, but then again I adore simplicity from time to time." He crossed the room to stand near Ricky, still smiling at the letters. "Especially that one there, you see the one that just says ‘I hate you’ in capital letters? Priceless. I wouldn’t sell it for a million.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re really screwed up, you know that?”

“It’s been brought to my attention.” Tinsley looked at him sidelong from under heavy lids. “But everyone has issues, detective. Some people choose to wallow in theirs, and mope and cry and waste away. I choose to use mine… more intelligently.”

Ricky nodded at the framed letters. “Oh, _so_ intelligently.”

“They’re inspirational!”

“I’ll remember that next time I decide to, uh, _inspire_ you.”

Tinsley smiled dryly, still examining the letters. "I was about to make myself a coffee." He turned his head, studying the side of Ricky's face with the same knowing edge he had examined the letters with. "Do you want to stay for one?"

Ricky didn't respond for a moment. "Better not."

"You have somewhere to be?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

Tinsley laughed. "Alright. I get it." He broke away, out of Ricky's periphery. His shoes sounded against the floor, sharp and clear. "Let yourself out."

Ricky swiftly did so, closing the door behind him, pacing away down the hall towards the elevator. Only when the doors had slid shut did he feel like he could relax, running a hand through his hair, leaning back against the wall. Every time he was in a room with Tinsley he felt like he was constantly teetering between fight and flight, like he was in some sort of danger. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. He wasn't sure, but he had a feeling that one day he'd find out which one was the truth.

When he got back to the station he sat at his desk and took the list of numbers from his back pocket. He dialed them one at a time, spinning them in with a frown on his face. Some didn't answer. Some did, and they were voices he didn't recognize. He just hung up on those. One was a voicemail, with a familiar voice; the defendant in the Harvey White case. He didn't leave a voicemail. He was just checking something off in his head. The next number was answered by another familiar voice, nonchalant and breathy, and with a slight accent.

"Hello, Francesca Norris speaking."

Ricky's brows drew together. He put the phone down, sitting back and biting at his thumbnail, pensive. He jumped when his name was barked from across the desks.

"Tie, Goldsworth!" The chief gestured furiously at his own neck. "C'mon!"

Ricky scowled at him, blatantly moody, but he did as he was told. His hands went still as he saw the reason why the chief had come out of his office at all; a grey-haired woman in a soft maroon coat with fur trim was crossing the desks. She turned her head, spying Ricky from behind her gold-rimmed glasses, but otherwise didn't make any impression that she recognized him. Ricky had never seen her come in before. Or maybe he had, and it just hadn't seemed important to him. He wanted to step outside and have a cigarette and mull things over, but he quashed the craving and scooched his chair into his desk. The chief stepped aside and Holly went into the office. The door was closed behind her.


	6. Dark Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“I was hurrying_   
>  _through my own soul,_   
>  _opening its dark doors —_   
>  _I was leaning out;_   
>  _I was listening.”_

Ricky wasn’t one for sitting down and reading. He didn’t find any calm in it. He would sit and try to focus on the pages and his foot would start tapping and his gaze would start drifting and his thoughts would grab a hold of his focus and throttle it. So he found it surprising that he sat and read Tinsley’s old college paper like it contained the meaning of life, when really it contained a debate about whether or not a life has a meaning at all, and who gets to decide whether the life in question deserves a meaning or not. The words were written with a sort of formalized ferocity, harsh but calm and collected. Ricky lay back on the couch and flipped through the pages for the guts of an hour. When he was done he let his arm rest over the side of the couch, the pages touching the floor. He had garnered many assumptions about Tinsley in the span of time it took to read through the thoughts that went on in the lawyer’s head.

Tinsley believed that killing is justified when an innocent is threatened. He believed that force - _lethal_ force - can be justified when it is used against an unjust aggressor, when it is being used to achieve a morally good objective, and when it is proportionate to the threat at hand. He believed that, if the crime is temporary, then the punishment should be temporary, but if the crime has permanent consequences (as it can have on the psychology of a victim) then the punishment should be permanent too. Ricky had swiftly begun to see why the lecturer had felt unsettled by the contents of the assignment; Tinsley frequently wandered just a bit too close to the line between academic curiosity and morbid interest. _A pacifist is brave, but naive, and has most likely never faced a situation where the outcomes are only life or death. You cannot reason with a tiger when your head is in its mouth._ A bit further down; _Killing someone without splitting oneself from the feelings that the act engenders requires an effort of supreme consciousness that, quite frankly, is beyond most humans._ And even further down, an odd paragraph on how individuals can be conditioned to handle the immense stress that accompanies the act of murder, the act of taking a life. Ricky found it all eye-opening, in all the wrong ways.

He had just finished reading the paper when his phone rang, trilled loud and clear in the otherwise silent apartment. He slid off the couch, making his way to the table, putting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

It was the chief. “Ricky, get your ass down here. Quick-sharp. Got some footage from that murder a few nights ago. Remember the one? The one that’s being processed through the courts right now?”

“I’m not on that case.” But he knew that a certain lawyer was dealing with it, within the confines of the courthouse.

A harsh sigh. “I know you’re not on it, and I hate to say this, but you have a knack for connecting things. So I want your insight.”

“Aw. My heart is full.”

“Just come down.”

By the time Ricky got to the station the projector room was set up. The video was flickering on the wall, jumping and hopping a little, just like all the eager little coppers in the room. Ricky stuck to the back of the small group, watching the video with sharp eyes. It was camera footage from outside of the house where the murdered man had been found. One window was in view, with a light on inside. A minute or two passed - the trees outside silent, their leaves black against the violet sky - and like an artist throwing a paint brush against a canvas, a dark liquid was thrown against the glass of the window from inside. There was no denying that the substance was blood - it stuck, like syrup, running in trickles and tendrils that grew paler as they ran longer. The footage seemed to freeze, the coldness seeping out of it, spreading through the room. Then black shifted upon black, and a shape fled through the garden, with a smaller black shape in hand. A kid.

Out of the corner of Ricky’s eye there was another shift of black on black. He turned his head, and there was Tinsley, just a bit behind him, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded. He was watching the footage too, with coolly observant eyes, the gears whirring in his head. His gaze flickered to meet Ricky’s. He smiled. Ricky turned his head away. Then he turned it back, just in time to see a strangely dark look on the lawyer’s face, which was quickly hidden by the same smile as before, with the same ease as changing a shirt. Ricky sidled up to him; the rest of the room was beginning to disperse, as the footage had ended, and was now repeating itself on the wall, the images flickering and jumping. The lights were still off. Tinsley didn’t greet him. He just watched Ricky closely, sidelong, his lids heavy and smooth. Ricky leaned against the wall beside him. Both of their faces, their features, were in darkness, but for the glimmer of their eyes studying each other.

“What are you doing here?”

Tinsley shrugged. “I know one of the people in that video.”

“You mean the dead guy.”

“I mean the dead guy. The one who decided to decorate the window with his insides.”

Ricky let out a single snicker. “Gross.”

“Very.” Tinsley watched the footage repeating, watched the black figure scurrying across the gardens. “Any chance you’ll be able to find out who that is?”

“Slim chance. We’ll try to lighten it, but it’s not definite that it’ll work.”

“Shame. Would make winning this case a whole lot easier.”

“What if it’s not who you’re prosecuting?”

“As in, what if I’m wrong?”

“Yeah.”

A smirk. “I’m never wrong. You can be sure of that.” He moved on. “Unearthed some very interesting information on the dead man last night. He was very much involved in child trafficking.”

Ricky was immediately suspicious. The pattern was showing itself again. “What?”

“Yes.” Tinsley was still watching the footage with unblinking eyes. “I know I’m defending him, but maybe he deserved to die.”

“Maybe. Not for you or me to decide though, is it?”

Tinsley ignored this. “I’m here for another reason, too. I’m writing a paper on child trafficking and how it could be prevented.”

Ricky raised a dark eyebrow. “Well, you do seem to have a lot of examples at your disposal. Since a whole lot of your past clients were involved in that sort of stuff.”

“I know. What a coincidence.”

“...Do you write papers a lot?”

“Often enough, yes. As I’ve said before, I don’t have downtime.” Tinsley tapped the side of his head with a slim finger. “Brain’s always working.”

They lapsed into silence, no sound in the dark room but for the whirring of the projector. Ricky moved forward and turned it off, removing the film, holding the wheel in both hands, looking down at it. He felt movement at his shoulder.

“Can I have your number, Ricky?”

Ricky looked back over his shoulder at him with indignance. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

Tinsley seemed calm. “Okay. Can I give you mine?” He nodded at the projector wheel. “When you do get that lightened, and if anything of value is visible on it, I’d like to be one of the first to know.”

“Oh.” Ricky looked away, back at the projector wheel. “Sure. Just write it down and give it to me.”

A small piece of folded paper was immediately passed to him. Ricky pocketed it with a dry: “You came prepared.”

“Always do.”

“Good to know.”

Tinsley gave him a mildly amused look before turning away, weaving his way through the desks towards the door. He stopped in the doorway, a tall slim silhouette.

“Who do you think gets to decide whether or not someone deserves to die?”

Ricky half-sat on one of the desks, still holding the projector wheel. “That’s a hard question to answer.”

“But you think there’s an answer?”

“I don’t know. It’s complicated.” He looked Tinsley’s shadowy figure over. “Do _you_ think there’s an answer?”

“I think it varies from case to case. And I think that sometimes, it _is_ us who decides.” His voice was honeyed, smooth. “Every little thing people in our position do can decide the fate of someone who’s in this system’s grasp.”

“Yeah?” Ricky seemed vaguely entertained by this notion. “Is that why you became a lawyer?”

“Is that why you became a cop?”

Ricky laughed. “Touché.”

“Mm.” Tinsley switched on the light; it illuminated the room, and his smile with it. “Now, that’s better. Can’t be leaving you in the dark for too long.”

He stepped out into the corridor, pausing as he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Ricky didn’t speak; he just pressed a blank piece of lined paper to the wall and wrote down some numbers in his neat print with a pen from his pocket before passing it to Tinsley with an almost warning look.

“That’s my number. For professional reasons only.”

Tinsley took the piece of paper between thumb and forefinger, as if with distaste, despite the smile in his eyes. “I’ll make sure to treasure it.”

“You better. Not a lot of people have it.” A small smile as he turned away; all that was missing was a wink.

* * *

The inevitable call came later that day, in the evening. Tinsley didn't waste time, it seemed, and he wasn't shy about it. The phone trilled on the table, sudden and striking enough to make Ricky jump where he was lying on the couch. He let it ring a few times, his eyes stuck to it. He knew who it was, he knew from the mixture of dread and excitement that had unfurled in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t answer. Whatever Tinsley was looking for this late, whatever he was up to, it was going to cause nothing but trouble. Ricky walked to the table and he watched his hand reach for the phone and pick it up and bring it to his ear, and he heard himself say: “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Tinsley.”

“I know.”

Tinsley continued on breezily. “I was thinking about our conversation earlier, and I think it’d be a good idea for me to get a cop’s opinion on all this death stuff. Could I meet you and ask a few questions?”

Ricky’s brows drew together in a frown. It seemed innocent enough. “...I guess.”

“Fantastic. Are you free tonight?”

 _Say no._ “Yeah.”

“Perfect. Meet me at that bar down from the café at nine?”

 _That’s a bit late._ “Sure. Okay.” A pause. “...See you then.”

"Yes, you will."

* * *

Ricky had just put his hand on the door to the bar when he heard a casual “wait up”. When he turned, Tinsley was just arriving at his shoulder with a charming smile. He looked good, more casual than usual, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, his coat draped over his arm, and his collar and tie loose and casual. Ricky couldn’t help but see it as some sort of trap, as a poisonous insect disguises itself as a flower. _Come in, come close, I promise I won’t bite your head off._

“In sync, aren’t we?” said Tinsley.

Ricky rolled his eyes, ignoring the feeling of Tinsley’s arm brushing his shoulder as the taller man reached to open the door. “For once.”

Tinsley smiled at him, holding the door open. “In you go, detective.”

“...Thanks.”

The place was quiet, seeing as it was a weekday, just a few regulars and some after-work attendees. Tinsley led the way to a table against the far wall, and Ricky followed, albeit reluctantly, annoyed that he had been given no option to have a say in the choice of table. Tinsley smiled at his slightly miffed face.

“You don’t like this table?”

Ricky shrugged. “It’s fine. I guess.”

“But you wanted to approve.” Tinsley placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze despite the warning look in Ricky’s eyes. “Relax. I’m not trying to trick you or anything. I just think you’re the type of guy who needs to be told what he likes.”

Ricky’s glare stayed frozen on his face. “What the hell does that mean.”

“It means-” Tinsley’s eyes flickered to the bar. “-that you’re getting what I’m getting. So-”

“Hold on a second, man.” Ricky’s hand pressed into the side of Tinsley’s waist, holding him in place. The body under the shirt was surprisingly firm against his palm. “I’ll get the drinks.”

“I invited you. It only seems right that I get the drinks.”

“I want to get the drinks,” said Ricky heatedly, wondering exactly why he felt so insulted at the prospect of Tinsley choosing his drink for him. He took his hand from Tinsley’s waist in order to shrug off his coat, throwing it onto his seat. “So I’ll be right back. Thanks.”

Tinsley’s reply was distracted, his lowered gaze stuck to the bare skin visible behind the open collar of Ricky’s shirt. “If you insist.”

Ricky insisted. He went to the bar and rested his elbows on it, his hand wrapping around the back of his neck, fingers pulling at a few of the shorter curls there. He felt tense all over, his shoulders raised, head hanging. The bartender said she’d bring the drinks over, seeing as it was a quiet night. Ricky wished she hadn’t offered. He didn’t want to go back to the table quite yet.

He sat down across from Tinsley, folding his arms on the table between them. There was a candle in the middle of the table, and Ricky sharply blew it out before picking it up and placing it aside. Tinsley smiled at the action, undeniably mocking.

“You seem a bit on edge.”

Ricky inclined his head, an eyebrow raising. “Well I am. A bar is a bit of a weird choice of location.”

“I wanted you to feel at ease,” said Tinsley, casual.

 _Fat chance around you._ “What questions did you want to ask me.”

“I thought I’d stick to specifics.” Tinsley took out a small notebook from his back pocket, the cover black with a few markings on it. He didn’t open it. “You’re pretty interested in my work. My past cases. Why is that?”

"I'm not."

"You are. Unless you swing by my old university in order to have a chat with an old lecturer just for fun." Tinsley observed him steadily as he spoke. "Is that how you usually spend your free afternoons, Ricky?"

The bartender came over and set their drinks down with a smile. She went to relight the candle, but paused at Ricky’s sharp “it’s fine”. He wanted to say more. He wanted to ask her to turn out the oil lamp above them, the light it was casting was too soft, too warm, he’d rather be in near darkness so he couldn’t see Tinsley’s face and Tinsley couldn’t see his, and their gazes couldn’t linger on each other’s so often. But she left. Tinsley brought his drink to his pointed nose and gave it a sniff.

“Cider?”

“Yeah. You don’t like it?”

Tinsley watched him for a moment before suddenly smiling. “I love it. Now, are you going to answer my question?”

Ricky took a taste of his drink. It was sweet and bubbly. “I'm just a bit curious about you. I thought that went without saying."

"I suppose it does. I'm curious about you too, after all. Maybe curious enough to have had a poke around _your_ time in university too."

Ricky felt a hot flush start at his lower back and swiftly rise up through him. He sat back to try and stifle it against the seat. "Right."

"You had a strange time, didn't you?” Tinsley plucked a cigarette from his tin. “Not many people graduate college with a degree and a ruined marriage under their belt."

Ricky swallowed hard, disguising it by taking a mouthful of his drink; he was drinking quite quickly in general. He didn't reply. He felt ill, and his waistcoat was suddenly constricting his ribs, and Tinsley was smiling at him.

"Why, Ricky, I've never seen you so quiet."

"What the fuck are you trying to do here."

"Defensive, are we?" Tinsley smiled again, in the midst of striking a match for the cigarette he was talking around. "I wouldn't be. You should be so proud. That lecturer thought you were an A in bed. Or did he fuck you in his office like everyone fantasizes?"

"It's none of your fucking business."

"What would you do if you didn't have such a pretty face," said Tinsley quietly. "Where would you be in life? Not where you are now, anyway."

"Shut the fuck up."

Tinsley lifted his hands off the table, casual. "Hey, I'm not judging. I say fair play. You sold yourself and you got your reward. Only makes sense."

Ricky glared at him, gripping his drink in both hands like it was a certain someone's neck. "Shut. The fuck. Up."

Tinsley smiled again, that small smirk. "You're right. I'm taking over the conversation when what I want to hear is _your_ voice. So let's go back to my original question about your interest in my cases."

Ricky continued glaring at him for a long few minutes before deciding to barrel ahead. "Why do _you_ think I’m so interested in your past cases?”

Tinsley shrugged. “I’ll be honest and say I think you have an ulterior motive or two.”

“Do you really think I’m the type of guy who’s capable of keeping motives ulterior?”

Tinsley pondered this, watching Ricky’s face closely. “No. I suppose not.”

A strange silence settled heavy over the table. They each watched the other, closely, levelly. Ricky took a deep breath through his nose, sitting back. “But speaking of ulterior motives, I can’t help but feel that this ‘interview’ has a few.” He cocked his head. “Does it?”

“I don’t know. Do you prefer motives to be ulterior or more overt?”

“I think the motives here are already much more overt than ulterior.”

A small smile. “And why’s that.”

Ricky’s smile was equally small, and dry, and unamused. “You haven’t asked me a single question about your supposed paper. And a bar? Really? You could have just asked me questions over the phone.”

Tinsley’s brows raised slightly, as if he found all this very interesting. “Well, if the motives were so overt, then why did you come.” 

Ricky stared at him. Again, he felt as if he had been guided into a trap laid out to perfection by the other man. “Just ask me some stupid questions so I can leave.” 

“Stupid questions, hm? I have a stupid question for you.” Tinsley nodded towards Ricky’s almost-empty glass, and said quietly: “Do you want another drink?” 

Ricky didn’t respond for a moment. “I think that’s a stupid question for both of us.”

“Yes. It is.” Tinsley rested his chin in his hand, his other hand resting on the table beside his drink, drawing small circles in the condensation the cold glass had left. “Shame.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes you do.” Tinsley spread his hands, sitting back in his seat. “But it’s fine. Strictly professional. No problem, pal.”

Ricky shifted in his seat, holding his drink in both hands. He had to get out of the bar, he had been backed into a very uncomfortable situation altogether. And a very dangerous one. Because he _would_ sleep with Tinsley, in a heartbeat. He was attractive in every poisonous way known to man; handsome, cruel, charming, vindictive. He was enticing, it would be a thrill. Ricky knew it would be, because he couldn’t for the life of him predict what would happen if he _did_ give in. They would sleep together, and then what? Never talk again? Talk every day? Start World War Three? Ricky felt prickly all over, tiny needles poking out of him. He looked down into his glass, at the few drops left of his drink.

“I’m surprised you’re even interested.”

“Of course I’m interested.”

“Then why bring up my time in university?”

“I wasn’t disapproving,” said Tinsley. “I appreciate a person who’s willing to do what it takes to get to the top, whatever the path taken. The dirtier the better, really.”

Ricky raised his gaze to watch him from under his brows. “And what have you done to get to the top?”

Tinsley took a mouthful of his drink and swallowed before answering. “I don’t think you’d believe me.”

“Worse than what I did?”

“Much worse. Much, much worse.” 

Ricky rested his chin in his hand, rethinking that second drink. “Give me details. Since you know all mine.”

Tinsley smiled. “Curious, are you?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“A curiosity for the dark and dangerous. Just like me.” Tinsley brought his drink to his mouth again. “In some ways I’d say we’re perfect for each other.”

“Sometimes that’s not a good thing.”

“You see, I don’t care whether or not a thing is good or bad. I just care about getting what I want. So I guess that’s where we differ.”

Ricky was still watching him, eyes dark and glittering. “And you want me.”

Tinsley held his gaze. “Since I first laid eyes on you.”

“How romantic.”

Tinsley laughed at the dry tone. “No, I’ll admit my thoughts about you aren’t exactly the romantic sort.”

“You don’t dream of holding my hand and walking with me through fields of flowers? I’m so disappointed.”

Tinsley didn’t laugh this time. His eyes were curious, watching Ricky’s face. “So you’re good looking and smart and funny. What don’t you have.”

Ricky smiled, turning his empty glass in circles on the table. “You mean you want to know if I have any chinks in my armour.”

“Well, you have to have a weakness somewhere.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re just amazing at first date talk?”

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. “So this is a date?”

Ricky shrugged. “I don’t know if it matters. If it is one, it’ll be our last one as well as our first.”

“Oh, you break my heart.”

“And as a matter of interest, I don’t have any weaknesses at all,” grinned Ricky, folding his arms around his glass, resting his chin on the rim. “But I think you do.”

“Is that so?” Tinsley paused with his drink halfway to his mouth. “Well, then, by all means enlighten me. What’s my weakness, Ricky?”

“I think you’re looking at it.”

Tinsley placed his drink back down on the table, unsipped. He wasn’t smiling. “I’d advise that you don’t start thinking yourself too important.”

Ricky laughed, sitting back. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“You’re infuriating.”

Another grin. “I know, right?”

“And you’re the type of guy who needs to have the attitude fucked out of him,” said Tinsley, his voice dark.

Ricky’s grin remained in place, teeth sharp, but his eyes were serious as he leaned forward to speak, each word crisp and delicate in its sincerity. “In your fucking dreams.”

They went quiet, eyes locked, and Tinsley had never wanted to reach across a table and tear someone apart quite as much as he did right then. Ricky slowly sat back, baring his throat in a cocky manner, and Tinsley’s eyes found it as a target, his eyes unblinking, intense. He was certain he could see the pulse beating under the smooth skin there, paper-thin skin, easily torn. He’d teach Ricky Goldsworth who was really in charge. He leaned forward, voice low and rough.

“You know what, Ricky? The only way I’d want to be on top of you now is if you’re six feet underground and I’m dancing on your fucking grave, you fucking piece of-”

“You guys want another round?” asked the waitress, stopping by the table and picking up the glasses to place them on her tray.

Ricky flashed her a casual smile. “Better not.” He looked back at Tinsley, brows raised, perfectly innocent. “Is that alright with you, sweetheart?”

Tinsley let out a harsh sigh, getting to his feet, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. He looked at the waitress. “Thanks.”

She grabbed the opportunity to leave the heated scene, throwing them a concerned look over her shoulder. Ricky took his time standing up and picking up his coat and shrugging it on and buttoning it up. Tinsley stood beside him, waiting, his own coat and gloves on already. Ricky turned his head, looking up at him.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

Tinsley’s eyes were unblinking, but he smiled. “I’m a gentleman, Ricky. I can’t have you walk home alone.”

“Yeah, I think I’m fine.”

“Oh, I insist.”

Ricky wasn’t smiling anymore. “I said I’m okay.”

“And I said I insist.”

Ricky took a deep, quiet breath. He hadn't brought his gun. He hadn't brought anything. He mentally shook himself. Why would he have brought a weapon? Was he planning on killing someone? It was just Tinsley, a lawyer, a normal man. Yet the more he interacted with Tinsley the more he was beginning to see him as a wild animal trapped in a gilded cage of social norms. The way his face could drop from a charming smile to a murderous stare, the way he held himself, taut as a whip; there was something off about him. Ricky bit on his lip. He should have brought a weapon.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Tinsley, searching his face.

"Nothing." Ricky raised his chin, challenging. "Let's go." He stopped at the door, holding the handle. "But I hope you're not thinking this is going to go anywhere. It's not."

"Of course not. I just want to walk my good friend home."

“Why thanks, pal.”

“No problem, buddy.”

They stepped outside, and the door swung shut, blocking out the light from inside. They were alone. Ricky looked up at Tinsley from under his brows. Tinsley smiled.

“Well? Which way?”

Ricky lowered his gaze, taking a breath. “This way.”

He turned and started walking down the path, and he heard Tinsley’s footsteps echoing his, just a second out of time. Tinsley’s cigarette tin opened and snapped shut and a match sparked. The small flame fizzled before Tinsley shook it out. Then he held the tin towards Ricky and said: “Cigarette?”

Ricky closed his eyes, angling his head away from the tantalizing smell of tobacco. “Why do you do that.”

“Do what?” The tin snapped shut. “Offer my darling friend a cigarette?”

“You know I gave them up. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that by now.” Ricky turned his head to look up at him, directly. “So why do you keep offering me one.”

Tinsley’s face remained calm. “I’m a man who believes in not holding yourself back from the few pleasures there are in life. Resisting temptation for too long can drive you insane, you know.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“And why not?”

“I think that letting yourself have whatever you want whenever you want it is insanity. It’s a lack of control.”

“It’s freedom.”

“It’s a trap.” Ricky looked straight ahead again, down the dark path they walked along, side by side. “Take what you want whenever you want and it will eventually ruin you.”

"So when you're on your deathbed you'll happily think to yourself 'I am so glad I didn't do what I wanted when I was young'."

"Maybe. It'll all depend on retrospect then, won't it?"

"And what if you died now." Tinsley's voice was strange, tight, as if holding something back. "Would you be content with how you've lived your life?"

"You mean would I be thinking 'God, I wish I had taken that cigarette'."

"Yes."

Ricky rolled his eyes. "Well what if _you_ died right now? Would you be content just because you've smoked every cigarette you could get your hands on?"

"That would be part of it. But I've lived a satisfying life.” A strange lull. “Incredibly satisfying."

Their footsteps echoed each other, slow and curious, and wary. Ricky stopped at the corner of the path in front of the black tarmac of the road, and Tinsley stopped beside him, and when Ricky looked up at him Tinsley was looking right back with a soft, deadly look in his eyes. Ricky didn’t look away.

“You don’t need to walk me all the way to my door.”

“I simply want to make sure you get home safe. You seem to attract trouble.” 

“…I can’t argue, I guess.”

“That doesn’t usually stop you.” Tinsley took a deep breath, his gaze drifting. “I’m glad you turned up tonight.”

Ricky’s heart skipped a beat, unpleasantly. “Really.”

“Yes, really. I never thought I’d say it, but…” Tinsley’s gaze returned to Ricky’s, again with that predatory edge. “…you were a bit of a stress-reliever for me tonight.”

“A stress-reliever.”

“Mm.”

Ricky was quiet for a moment. “Odd choice of words.”

Tinsley didn’t object, but he didn’t confirm either. The corner of his mouth may have twitched into the beginning of an amused smile, or maybe it hadn’t. Ricky swallowed, keeping the gesture subtle, his eyes locked on the other man’s. He brought his key from his pocket, holding it thoughtfully for a moment, gaze lowered as he bit on his lip. Then he turned his head back to look up at Tinsley beside him and said, quietly: “Goodnight, Tinsley.”

The reply was just as quiet. “Goodnight, Ricky.”

Tinsley remained where he was, watching Ricky leave, drifting in and out of streetlights. He rubbed a gloved hand over his mouth, pensively, before turning away and making his way back towards the bar, steps meandering, his thoughts following Ricky home and into bed.

* * *

He was alone in a large dark space. There was no furniture, no windows, no floor or ceiling or walls. He wasn’t frightened. Most of his dreams consisted of this, and only this. Him, and only him.

A laugh rang through the air. Tinsley turned his head with a frown. He knew the laugh. It made his chest burn with anger. The laugh sounded again, bright, as if at play. Tinsley began walking towards it. His footsteps echoed, lonely. They always were.

He came upon a door, dark wood, set in a pitch black wall that was smooth and cold to touch. He took hold of the brass door knob. It was warm, a hint of life.

He turned the knob, opening the door into a hallway stretching off to his left and to his right. The ground was a patterned red and gold carpet, fresh and soft. The walls were the same red, and the photo frames on it were empty. He wasn’t surprised.

A flash of white made his head whip around, and he caught just a glimpse of an arm vanish around the far corner. The laugh sounded again. His chest burned.

When he reached the corner he peered down the adjoining hall, and the same glimpse of white was visible at the far end. An arm clad in a white shirt sleeve, the hand resting on the wall, and the rest of the figure hidden but for half their face. Even from this distance Tinsley knew who it was; with curly dark hair and glittering dark eyes, it was the detective. Ricky smiled mischievously and vanished around the corner. Tinsley took chase.

This continued for another three corridors; Tinsley would turn the corner, breathless, and Ricky would already be at the far end, half-hidden, peering around the corner at him like a child playing hide and seek, _laughing_ at him. Tinsley shouted down the hall, furious: “I can see you!”

This seemed to elicit a response in Ricky. He poked his head and shoulders around the corner, and cautiously let the rest of his body follow. Tinsley advanced towards him, quick sharp steps, rolling his sleeves up with bloody hands. The bloody hands were normal in his dreams. It would have been more unusual had they not been wet and red.

But just when he was within arm’s reach of Ricky, the man suddenly darted aside, throwing open a door and slamming it closed behind him. Tinsley tried the handle; it was locked. He rammed it with his shoulder, once, twice, three times, determined to get in, to get him. He stepped back and began kicking the door, hard enough that he occasionally stumbled back against the wall, but it didn’t deter him. He kicked it until he was sweating with the exertion, until the lock shattered, splinters exploding like shrapnel.

It opened into a dark bedroom. Tinsley stood a bit back from the doorway; he already knew where this was going. He could see the shape in the bed, under the deep golden covers, beside the candle on the bedside locker, the only source of light in the room. He let out a quiet breath, stepping forward, resting a hand on the door frame. He watched as the covers shifted, sliding like oil, and Ricky propped himself on an elbow, his face only visible from his nose up, his mouth hidden behind his shoulder. His eyes carried a strange mixture of messages; enticing, warning, an invitation, a challenge. _Touch me, at your own peril._ Tinsley moved towards the bed, not breaking his gaze, even as he stepped over the white shirt that was strewn on the ground. Ricky rolled onto his back as he got closer, the covers wrapping around his waist as he moved, his smile a sweet poison. Tinsley placed a knee on the bed, pressed his bloodied hands to the covers either side of Ricky's head, staining them, and Ricky said: "You don't really want me."

Tinsley watched his mouth, his sweet, vicious mouth. "I do."

Ricky suddenly grabbed hold of his face as if to drag him forwards into a kiss, but the feeling of their skin touching caused a flash of pain so intense it ripped Tinsley from his dream like a drowning man from the sea. He let out a feeble cry as he came to, clutching his covers, curled up under them like a child. He could still feel the tingling of Ricky's hands against his face, prickly, like he'd been slapped. He rested a hand on his chest, feeling how his heart was beating wildly. It hadn't beaten like that in a long time. He sat upright, raking his hands back through his hair before staring at them. They were as pale as always, not red and wet with blood. But they should be. He closed his eyes, letting out a sharp breath through his nose. They should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's right bitches it was yet another date that i have in my fics no matter WHAT


	7. Nondisclosure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Every branch in me that does not bear fruit He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.”_

Tinsley’s pen didn’t stop scratching, swooping along in a perfectly line, despite the fact there was no guideline to follow. The ink shone fresh and wet on the paper. When Tinsley had reached the end of the page, he placed the pen aside and reached for a small pot, the lid of which he unscrewed. He took out a pinch of powder. Ricky arched an eyebrow.

“You use sand to dry ink? That’s very old fashioned.”

Tinsley gave the mocking words a flat look. “It’s called pounce. And yes, it’s quite effective.”

“Blotting paper exists. If you really want to be that pretentious.”

“Blotting paper also leaves a reflection of the words on it. I’ve read Holmes. As I’m sure you have. So, better luck next time.” Tinsley shook the pounce off the paper with a deft flick. “And yes, I am a bit pretentious. I enjoy my frivolities as much as the next man. I love the details in things.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Tinsley smiled at him, sly, before going back to the letter, folding it carefully in half. “Hand me one of those envelopes, will you?”

Ricky debated it. Then he picked one up and tossed it across the desk, and it slid to a stop at Tinsley’s elbow. “Writing to your pen pal, huh?”

“Writing home.” Tinsley neatly slotted the folded letter into the envelope with practiced movements. “Which is not something I’d wish to discuss with you.”

“And why not.”

“Because I don’t want to get to know you like that,” replied Tinsley as he wrote the address on the envelope; Ricky spied the words _Paris, France._

“Like that?” Ricky raised an eyebrow, and again, and again, he chose to push his luck. “Is there a more appealing way you’d want to get to know me, hm?”

Tinsley brought the envelope close to his mouth, slowing just to give Ricky a smile, before bringing the tip of his tongue to the envelope’s seal and running it along, slowly. Ricky’s eyes followed to movement, his breath caught in his throat. It seemed to go on for an eternity, and every second more had Ricky’s heart beat double. He forced himself to look away from the man’s mouth, to stop imagining what it would feel like to have it against his skin. His gaze instead raised to meet Tinsley’s, and the man’s eyes burned with an intensity hot enough to raze an entire city to the ground. Ricky felt it like a punch in the gut. He stared at him, and Tinsley stared back. Then Tinsley looked back down at the envelope, running his thumb along the top to close it over. 

“No,” he said, quite simply. “No, I don’t want to get to know you at all, really.”

Ricky couldn’t reply straight away; his pulse was still thrumming. “...Pity.”

“Why’s that?”

“I was just thinking about last night.” Ricky let the sentence linger for a few seconds, and he detected just the smallest glimmer of interest in Tinsley’s eyes; interest, and the briefest hope. “I answered your questions, as best as I could. Now I’d like you to answer mine.”

Tinsley’s face fell flat. “About my past cases, no doubt.”

“Bingo.”

“Well that’s not a problem at all, Ricky. I’ll meet you at the café across the road in ten minutes. And then right after I’ll hand in my resignation to my superiors.” A stiff smile. “So off you go and wait for me like a good dog, alright?”

Ricky glare was flat. “Why don’t you want to tell me anything. I _know_ you’re hiding something.”

“Well, I am. I’m hiding so many things from you I don’t even know where I’d begin.”

“You’re hiding something about these cases. Tell me that thing first.”

Tinsley’s brows shot up. “Why in the world would I tell you? You’re unreliable and unpredictable to the max. Your opinion on this case flip-flops depending on who you think deserves your _utmost_ respect, which you seem to think is of value, for some reason, and-”

“Well if you believe that then tell me what you’re hiding,” said Ricky, quick to draw. “If you believe that my opinion changes on who I think deserves my respect, then you’ll tell me. Unless you know that what you’re hiding isn’t respectable. Unless you know that what you’re hiding is _wrong._ ”

Tinsley’s face was stony. “I’m not going to tell you, because I don’t like you.”

“Right, real mature.”

“I don’t like you, and you don’t like me.” Tinsley got to his feet as he spoke, speaking distractedly, engaging in a monologue as if Ricky wasn’t even there. “Sometimes two people just never hit it off. They hate every single little thing about each other, and that’s the end of it. Someone you meet and just despise from the get-go. And I despise you, Ricky. I hate your face, and your smile, and your voice. I find the whole combination extremely irritating.” He stopped on Ricky’s side of the desk, leaning back against it, hands in his pockets and legs crossed at the ankles. “So I want you to leave, now, before I get you escorted out.”

Ricky stared at him in silence for a moment, fuming, jaw set. Then he relaxed, sitting back, crossing his legs in a figure four with a lazy smile on his face. “Well go ahead. It’s been a while since I’ve had security drag me out of a building. Keeps me humble, really.”

Tinsley didn’t smile. He crossed the small space between the desk and Ricky’s chair, and crouched down beside him, so slowly, so carefully, as a tiger places a paw among the grass in order not to startle its prey. His elbows rested on his knees, hands linking together between them. His eyes watched Ricky, unblinking, and with such intensity that it crossed Ricky’s mind that the man was about to pounce and sink his teeth into him. Ricky sat a bit more forward.

“I think you should leave,” said Tinsley, quiet. “Before I lose what little patience I have left for you.”

“Your patience - or lack of it - isn’t much of a priority to me.”

“It will be if you’re not careful. Very, very careful.”

 _Or what._ Ricky bit his tongue, lifting his chin, defiant. He got to his feet as Tinsley straightened back up, and for a moment they stood, just a bit too close for comfort. Ricky moved away, around the chair, and toward the door.

“I have somewhere to be.”

“Sure you have.”

Ricky threw a sharp look back over his shoulder at him. He wanted to shout at him, _what is your problem, why are you like this?_ But he didn’t. He opened the door and stepped out and closed it firmly behind him. It was only then that he realized how tense he had been. His shoulders were stiff, and he rolled them as he walked down the hall toward the stairs. He smoothed his waistcoat as he went, over and over, flat against his stomach. His hands wanted to clench into fists, but he wouldn’t let them. 

And he _did_ , in fact, have somewhere to be, but it was more convenient that Tinsley thought he was lying. But it still irritated him immensely; why had Tinsley thought he was lying to get out of the room? Ricky wasn’t afraid of him, and the idea that Tinsley thought him fearful was infuriating. He paused at the stairs, turning to look back down the corridor at the closed door to Tinsley’s office. A paralegal passed by the opposite end of the corridor, her heels clicking as she hurried from one courtroom to another. Ricky shook his head at himself and started down the stairs with rapid footsteps.

* * *

A maid answered the door, one hand on the door, the other holding a child’s hand. “Hello?”

“Hi.” Ricky winced at the sound of shrieking children from somewhere within the mass of hallways that stretched out in front of him. “Is Holly in?”

The maid raised an eyebrow, the child tugged at her hand. “Can I get a name before I check?”

“Sure. Detective Ricky Goldsworth.” He showed his identification. “It’s nothing bad. I just want to have a talk with her.”

“...I’ll have to check if she’s in.” She stepped back into the hallway, opening the door more so he could slip past. “You can have a seat. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Ricky sat down in the chair beside the hall table, on which was an elaborate arrangement of lilies in a glass vase. The smell was overpowering, much too sweet for his liking. He turned his nose away from the flowers, observing the hall around him, swinging his legs back and forth, shoes scuffing the dark wood floor that was polished to such an extent he was surprised he didn’t sink into it, like thick chocolate icing, or blood. The walls were painted a smooth cream, and a framed photo was placed here and there (nothing personal, just pieces of art, and even they themselves were bland). Ricky scanned the room, looking for even a hint of who Holly Horsley was. He quickly came to the conclusion that the space was designed to hide any such hints; it was a mask. Ricky sat and quickly grew frustrated, arms folded across his chest. The front door opened and Ricky sat upright, for some reason expecting Tinsley to step through, tall and aloof, eyes narrowed, always on his tail, always a step ahead. But it was just another maid, laden down with groceries. She shook her head at his offer of help, vanishing into the nearest hallway. Ricky scowled. He hadn’t particularly wanted to help, but it would’ve given him the chance to delve deeper into the home of Holly Horsley.

The maid finally reappeared. “She’s in her office, in a meeting right now.”

He stood up. “I can wait.”

“She might be a while.”

“I can wait,” he repeated, stopping beside her. “Where’s her office?”

He followed the directions she reluctantly gave. All the doors were identical, dark wood with thick frames, brassy doorknobs, the doors themselves inlaid with intricate designs. Most were closed. Ricky traced his fingertips along them as he passed, listening for voices. At one of the rare open doors he stopped, staring at a cage across the room. It stood atop a pole, the same brassy colour as the cage was. In it sat a bird, unexpectedly large. Ricky had never seen a parrot in anything but television documentaries. It was watching him with an unblinking eye, hunched forwards, ducking its head up and down as it made strange gurgling noises, almost a laugh. Then it straightened up, puffing its feathers and squawking out two surprisingly distinctive words. _The usual!_ Ricky jumped at the sudden sound, scowling at the bird. It was giggling, chuckling, borrowing the laughs of children and lawyers and accountants and whoever else it tended to be in a room with from time to time. Ricky didn’t like it. He continued on.

He stopped when he found what he was looking for, keeping his hand pressed to the cool wood of the door as he leaned in to put his ear to it. The lilting up-and-down of an English accent came through.

“Who in the world is going to look into donations to an orphanage? They’d immediately be seen as horrible people, and rightly so.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” came another voice, male, sounding a bit down. “I’m just being paranoid.”

“You can’t start acting like this, dropping in on me at random times, it will look suspicious.” The clip-clipping of heels across a wood floor. “You know how this works. We cannot all be seen talking to each other at regular intervals. We cannot be seen as a group of friends. That would be disastrous.”

“But I’m also your accountant.”

“You’re only my accountant,” came the dry response. “We’re not friends.”

A nervous chuckle. “Yes. I see.”

“So if you have any other questions along the lines of what you’ve asked today,” said Holly slowly. “You know who to ask.”

A pause. “But I don’t like talking to him.”

“Why? He’s my lawyer. He’s always been my lawyer.”

“I don’t know. He just… Tinsley makes me uncomfortable.”

Ricky’s brows raised. _You can say that again._

“Oh, he’s not that bad, Banjo. Truly. He’s not feral.”

Another nervous chuckle; it seemed to be the only sort of chuckle he knew. “He’s tamed, is he?”

A slight quiet set in. “No. No, but he’s smart.” The sound of a chair squeaking, someone sitting down. “So I suppose you can look at it like this; if you’re not willing to talk to Tinsley about any concerns, then they’re not concerning enough to be worrying about them. Yes?”

“Yes. I guess.”

“Excellent. You can go.”

Ricky stepped back from the door as it was opened, revealing a short and round man with a receding hairline but an impressively thick moustache, as if the fluffy brown hair had migrated overnight. He wore an elaborately patterned waistcoat, a deep plum with a goldish floral pattern, and had a thick ledger and multiple pens in one thick-fingered hand. The man’s little eyes widened in fright at the sight of Ricky - yes, fright, as if Ricky was a threat, or a danger in some way - but they relaxed just as quickly, although his face remained waxy pale.

“Sorry. Sorry, hello.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow. “Hi.”

“Banjo? Who is it?”

The man, Banjo, spoke back over his shoulder. “I think it’s Lucy Goldsworth’s son.” He turned his head back to face Ricky more directly, bushy brows raising. His voice was distinctly Irish. “You’re the spitting image of her, you are. For a second I almost thought you _were_ her.” He wiped a hand across his forehead, miming letting out a harsh sigh. “Phew!”

“Why would you-”

The taller figure of Holly Horsley appeared over Banjo’s shoulder. Her slatey eyes watched Ricky, measuring and scanning and rifling through his pockets before landing back on his face. “I didn’t know you had waited, detective.”

He looked back at her. “Yeah. I’d like to have a word. Nothing official. All off-record.”

She tried a smile. It didn’t suit her. “My favourite type of conversation.” She tapped Banjo’s shoulder to get him to stand aside and let Ricky through before muttering to the accountant. “Go and get a call sent to Tinsley for me.”

Ricky felt an unpleasant panic set in his chest instantly. “That isn’t necessary.”

“He once told me that the stupidest thing to do is talk to a cop without a lawyer present,” she said coolly. “And I have no reason to doubt his intellect.”

Ricky kept his head high; she was just an inch or so taller than him. He blamed it on her heels. “Right. Fine. Whatever.”

He waited until Banjo had scuttled off before moving further into the office. Holly closed the door after him. Then she beckoned for Ricky to come further into the room, across the hardwood floor and onto the soft rug in front of the desk, on which sat two chairs with cushioned seats. Everything reeked of wealth; the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, the red velvet curtains held in red velvet sashes trimmed with gold either side of the tall Georgian windows, the view of the back garden outside, the sprawling lawns and terraced greens and perfect paving without a single sprouting weed. Ricky stared out at it, knowing that despite his doubts about the woman who ran the establishment, he knew the children must want for nothing here.

"Why did you open an orphanage?" he asked.

“I opened it once I found out what my husband had been involved in previous to his death,” she said, pouring herself a glass of water. She poured one for Ricky too. She poured a third. She obviously expected Tinsley to arrive post-haste. “I felt like I owed something. I don’t know to who. The children. Society. Myself. For being so stupid. And blind.” She passed the drink to him as she passed by, skirts swishing. “That is why I am what I am now.”

Ricky didn’t take a drink. He just stood with the glass in his hand. “And you only found out about him after he was killed.”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“Why unfortunately?”

“Well if I had found out about what he was doing before he was killed by Francesca, I would have done it myself.” 

She stood beside her desk chair, a hand resting on the back of it. She wore a lot of rings, on all her fingers but the ring finger of her left hand. A symbolic disowning of her husband. Ricky moved a bit closer to the desk.

“How did Francesca find out before you?”

“I don’t know,” said Holly with a shrug. “He talked to her more than he did to me. Sweet nothings can reveal sweet secrets, I suppose.”

“And how long had you known that Francesca had been sleeping with him?”

“Oh, he was always sleeping with someone or other. It wasn’t a bother to me.” She finally sat down, crossing her legs, tucking her greying hair behind her ears. “In fact, it kept him occupied, and I had other interests in life. And anyway, Fran did me a favour in the end by killing him. I didn’t have to get my hands dirty.”

“So if you had-”

“I think that’s enough informal interrogation,” came a very much unimpressed voice from behind Ricky. “Holly, I’ll take it from here.”

Holly smiled at Ricky, who hadn’t turned around to face the newcomer. “With pleasure, Cecile.”

She stood up and left the room with a few prim and proper footsteps. She closed the door behind her. Ricky wondered whether or not he should have left while he had the chance. He took a mouthful of his drink before placing it on the desk; Tinsley slipped into his periphery, in a dark suit and dark red tie, his glasses flashing in the light from the window. His voice was low, mildly amused.

“How the hell did you wrangle your way in here.”

Ricky finally turned his head to look at him, chin up. “Not everyone has to plot to get what they want. I just asked. Like a normal person.”

Tinsley tilted his head aside, perfectly condescending (although his eyes were glittering, his hair was windswept, and he was trying to disguise how heavily he was breathing from his rush over). “Sure you did.” He took a sudden step forwards, and Ricky automatically went to step back, but he was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder, Tinsley giving it a hard squeeze, keeping him in place. From a distance, they could have been friends. “Now, Ricky. I know we have our fun and games from time to time, but do you see me laughing?”

Ricky tilted his head away from the offending hand; it was just a bit too close to his neck. “I’m not laughing either.”

“Excellent.” A cold smile. “So we can talk man to man, can’t we? One professional to another.”

“Never too late to start.”

Tinsley’s fingers dug into Ricky’s shoulder, his thumb pressing on his collar bone, hard enough to hurt. He ignored Ricky’s indignant glare, leaning down so that their noses were inches apart. “If you don’t back off, I’m going to sue you into an early grave. I’m going to make sure-” His grip remained tight even as Ricky tried to pull his shoulder free. “-that you’d rather slit your own throat than go on living another day. Do you want that, Ricky?”

Ricky’s gaze was lowered to the hand on his shoulder, now most definitely too close to his neck. His lip curled at Tinsley’s proximity, showing just a glimmer of teeth. “So there _is_ something to back off from, then.”

“Yes, you little idiot. I thought we had established that.”

“Right, well-” A grumbled few words. “You’re hurting me.” Ricky shook his shoulder again, finally grabbing hold of Tinsley’s wrist and wrenching the man’s hand off him, shoving it aside with a sharp: “I said you’re hurting me!”

Tinsley retracted his hand, his fingers curling in a little as he pouted, eyes large. “Oh, that’s very sad.”

Ricky gritted his teeth, feeling a sudden burning anger in his gut. “The fuck is wrong with you. Seriously.”

“It’s a simple enough concept, Ricky. Action-reaction.” He poked a finger into Ricky’s chest. “Action.” He pointed at himself. “Reaction. Yes?”

Ricky watched him warily; there was a strange glimmer in his eyes, some sort of panicked madness. He fanned it. “Would you be treating me like this if I’d let you fuck me last night, huh?”

Tinsley didn’t seem too impressed. He straightened back up, looking Ricky over, disdainful, as he stepped around him. “You wouldn’t have been able to leave your apartment if I’d fucked you last night, you can be sure of that.”

Ricky spared a dry laugh, shaking his head as he turned so that he remained facing the other man. “I thought you wanted to talk one professional to another.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Ricky smiled. “You don’t know what to do with me, do you. How close am I to tapping into whatever you don’t want to be found?” He waved at the surrounding furniture, the books on the shelves, the paintings on the walls. “Could it be right in this room? Could I be inches away from it?”

Tinsley fixed him with a level look, voice slow and quiet. “You could be looking right at it.”

“Does that frighten you? You look a bit frightened.” He smiled, and spoke without thinking, too cocky for his own good. “Fraternizing with the enemy isn’t as easy as you thought it would be, hm?”

Tinsley hadn’t been smiling, but his face dropped nonetheless, his eyes freezing over. He recognized the phrase, he had spoken it himself not too long ago, to Holly, in this very room. Ricky was attempting to act casual, but the sudden panic was clear in the way his hands were fidgeting, in the way he was looking anywhere but in Tinsley’s eyes, which were unblinking, still staring in shock. Tinsley spoke after a moment of silence.

“How did you...”

Ricky waited for the question to be finished. He knew exactly what Tinsley was thinking; _how did this detective know the words I used in a meeting with Holly Horsley from before he had even known either of us? Where did he hear it? Who told him?_ Ricky cleared his throat, and checked his watch, grabbing advantage of this rare stunned silence from Tinsley. “I have to get back to work. Lovely chat, as always.”

Tinsley let him go. His heart was racing in his chest again. Twice in two days? It was a record. And both instances were caused by Ricky Goldsworth. He wasn’t sure if he liked the sensation. He wanted to get rid of it, and now. So he sat at Holly’s desk and totted up who knew about what. There were some who knew, and there were some who were suspicious. Best gather them all.

* * *

**2 years previous.**

It was like a board meeting. On one side sat the Mayor, Holly, and Tinsley. On the other sat Francesca Norris. Her face was carefully guarded. She avoided the lawyer’s eye; he had the sort of gaze that could pick apart your mind like a child with a butterfly’s wings. Holly eventually spoke, calm yet strong, a cool breeze through the still room.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Francesca.”

She swallowed, and under the table her hands clasped each other tightly. “It’s- It might take me a while to come to terms with… everything.”

“That’s understandable.” She watched Fran from over the rims of her glasses. “But you agree entirely to this?”

Fran’s eyes fluttered a tad. She didn’t want to look at the piece of paper lying in front of the lawyer. “Yes. Yes, if it goes as you say it will go.”

Tinsley finally spoke. “It will.”

Francesca didn’t look at him. She could see his hands out of the corner of her eye, strong hands, clean yet not clean. One of these hands rested on the piece of paper in front of him, and pushed it across the table until it was under her nose. His voice was deep, oddly comforting.

“Now, as you’ll notice, it’s a mutual NDA. Which means that although you can’t speak about what you saw, we can’t speak about it either. You have some protection in this situation.”

She stared at the signatures at the bottom of the formal-looking page. Holly Horsley. Cecile Tinsley. Justice James Boyko. Various elegant scrawls. Tinsley spoke again.

“There is an arbitration clause, which means that if this contract is breached, it doesn’t require a court trial.” His hands interlocked on the table. “Consequences are privately enforced.”

“…I don’t get a chance to reconsider after I’ve signed, no?”

“No. There’s no cooling-off period with this one, I’m afraid.”

Francesca had expected nothing less. She read over the contract, taking her time. “I have to hand over my social media passwords? And my email?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So we can check that you haven’t already spoken about it.”

She stared at them in dumbfounded silence. “Are you serious?”

“This is a very serious matter, Ms Norris,” said the Mayor, his head inclined, stern. “All angles must be covered.”

“I have private stuff on my social media.”

“I doubt any more private than what you’ve seen tonight,” said Tinsley. “And worth the price, I believe.”

She looked at the amount of money specified on the paper. “…Okay.”

“Excellent.” Tinsley picked up a pen - one of Holly’s fountain pens, long and elegant and a glossy red and gold - and handed it towards her. “All you need to do is sign, and we can all go home.”

“This is making the best of a very warped situation, Francesca.” Holly folded her hands one over the other on the table, her rings flashing, large and many. “I think if you don’t sign this, you might one day regret it.”

Francesca thought so too, as there were many reasons she could regret not signing it. She wasn’t sure which one Holly was referring to. She couldn’t look at Tinsley, even as she reached out and took the pen from his hand. It was for a good cause, she knew it was, but she still felt like she was signing away her soul, and that once she had finished the last letter of her name the paper would burst into flames, and the lawyer would sprout a devil tail and horns, and fangs and claws too. None of that happened. She finished the _s_ with a little flick, and placed the pen down. Tinsley took the piece of paper, delicately.

“I’ll hold onto this and get you a copy. Do you have anywhere safe to keep it?” He raised his brows. “I think it’s quite understandable that it never see the light of day again.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ll get a safe.”

“You do that.”

The next had been the doctor, Tinsley’s old therapist. It was a necessity that a therapist be included, a medical cog in the machine to give some legitimacy to the operation (Holly and the Mayor went without saying; she had signed one due to her involvement, and the Mayor due to his skewed morals). Tinsley had gone to see Fear alone.

“I know it’s been a bit of a while since we’ve talked.” He stood beside the couch he used to sit on once a week every week. He let a hand drift out to touch it, as if to confirm he wasn’t in a dream. “But I have a favour to ask of you.”

The doctor sat in his armchair, fidgeting with a pen. “It, um, it depends on what it is.” He blanched a tad as Tinsley threw him a look. “I think.”

“Mm.” Tinsley turned to face him more directly, hands in his trouser pockets. “You used to give me those questions, remember, the ones about making hard decisions. I’m sure it helped you figure out whatever was going on up here-” A vague gesture at his head. “-but I have one for you.”

“…Yes?”

“Are all lives truly equal?” Tinsley didn’t sit. He made his way to the coffee machine across the room, fitting in multiple words per slow footstep. “And I don’t mean by value, as in, is a scientist more valuable than a, I don’t know, a secretary. I mean by… morality. If one person is truly, truly terrible, regardless of their circumstances, are they worth less than a person more pure? More innocent?” He stopped at the machine. “May I?”

Fear nodded. “Yes, that’s… no problem, Cecile.”

The machine whirred to life. “It’s a question that’s always bothered me. You know that. I was… fixated on it in university. Did a few papers.” The coffee hissed and steamed as it started dripping out of the spout, a dark black liquid spreading over the white ceramic base of the cup. “But I’m curious to know what _you_ think, doctor.”

Fear swallowed. “Well, in- in simple terms, it appears that the answer would be yes, doesn’t it?”

Tinsley’s reply was impatient, spoken over his shoulder. “Don’t ask me. I just asked you. So give me a definite answer.”

“Well- Well there’s so many aspects, I can’t- I don’t know how to- It could depend on-”

“Stop rambling. Where’s the milk?”

“I don’t have any.”

“You don’t have any milk?” Tinsley finally turned to fix him with an icy stare. “You have a coffee machine but no milk? What about sugar?”

“Sugar’s in the bowl,” squeaked Fear.

“What, I’m supposed to use my fingers to get it out? Like some sort of cretin?”

“No, no, there’s spoons, I just have to-”

“Forget it. I’ll just drink it black.” Tinsley picked up his cup, turning on his heel and moving back towards Fear. He took a piece of folded paper from his back pocket and shoved it at the doctor as he passed by. “Read that. It should give you all the aspects you need to make an informed decision.”

He sat down on the couch and placed his cup of coffee on the arm before resting back and crossing his legs. He watched the doctor’s face closely. It was going through various emotions, swiftly, from confusion to wariness to horror, but among them had been a flicker of excitement. This is what Tinsley had hoped for. He would just have to fan this excitement into something bigger and better, and more useful. Fear lowered the paper, trembling a little, having finished reading. His eyes were large behind his glasses.

“How do you think you’re going to pull this off?”

“Hm? Do you see any faults in it?” Tinsley tilted his head aside in a gesture of fond condescension at the ensuing silence. “Come on, Jesse. You’ve always known.”

A pause. “I… I saw it growing, yes. I never thought it would bear fruit.”

“How poetic.” He took a taste of coffee. Subpar. “I don’t think this is the worst way for it to, how you said, bear fruit. And more than that, I believe you knew full well it was going to bear fruit one day.” He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you would have preferred to watch it from a distance, as you’re so fond of doing.”

Fear blinked a few times. “I… can’t sign this.”

“You have to. Seeing as you’ve read it.”

“I’ll- I’ll sign an NDA. I don’t want anything to do with this.”

“Jesse, please. All you have to do is make up a little fable when called upon. And be rewarded handsomely.”

Fear looked back at the page. It was heavy in his hands. “Has this, um, already been tried and tested?”

Tinsley answered coolly. “Yes.”

“When.”

“Sign first. We can talk after.”

“I don’t know if I-”

“It’s a mutual NDA. You’re not at risk from me, or anyone else involved. You’ll be on the outskirts.” He smiled. “You’ve read so many papers on psychopathy and how it affects decision making. Wouldn’t you like to witness it first hand? Or if things go wrong, star in a future anecdote?”

Fear swallowed hard. “I’m concerned about you, Cecile. I think- I think you should start seeing me again.”

“You want to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Then sign that paper, and we'll be seeing each other so often you’ll be sick of me within a month.” Tinsley sat forward, taking a pen from his back pocket and holding it out towards the wide-eyed doctor. "Sign it. For the greater good. And all that."

Fear knew that if he truly cared about the greater good he would have made sure Tinsley had ended up in a padded room in a straitjacket at the end of their therapy sessions, and not walking around a court of law, pointing fingers and deciding who deserves what and why. But how could he have refused signing the document, with Tinsley right in front of him, with that mind in that head, black and burning with a rage he had been born with. In fact, maybe he was keeping Tinsley from causing _real_ danger by allowing him to have a specific outlet, something to keep him vaguely normal from day-to-day. So Fear had signed it, and then it had truly started, and it hadn't shown any signs of stopping.

Until a particularly nosy detective with a penchant for provoking a certain psychopathic lawyer had turned up. Fear had seen him go into Tinsley's apartment block that day, he had seen them standing on the courthouse steps, he had seen them in the courthouse itself, in the halls, always just a bit on edge. Fear wondered how long the detective would last.


	8. Lions and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There are no bargains between lions and men; I will kill you and eat you raw."_   
> 

Tinsley was alone at his desk, in his office, in a pale white light. The walls were black, the ceiling was black, the floor was black, but it was still there, solid under Ricky’s feet. He took a few slow steps forward into the endless inky darkness, hands by his sides, loose. His breaths were slow and laboured, as if he had just run from the end of the world as he knew it. He swallowed hard.

“Tinsley? Why am I here?” The silence answered, so deep and still it pulsated, buzzing in his ears. “Tinsley. Answer me.” He sounded desperate, afraid, alone. He shouted. “Tinsley!”

The window was open. Ricky wasn’t sure if it had always been. The ghostly curtain swam in the breeze, but Ricky couldn’t feel it. The air in the office remained still, suffocating. Ricky went up to the desk, and his footsteps echoed, chasing him. Tinsley didn’t acknowledge his presence. He sat, one hand holding a fountain pen that dripped red, the other hand holding down a piece of paper, a list of names. Ricky didn’t think to read them. He was staring at Tinsley’s eyes. They were entirely empty, a milky white, no pupil, no iris. Blind. Ricky reached out a hand, as if to touch him, as if to tempt some reaction from him. He let his fingertips rest against his cheek, and they recoiled with shock at the feeling of rough stone in lieu of soft skin. Tinsley didn’t react. He brought the fine tip of the fountain pen to a name on the list, and dragged a perfectly straight line through it. Ricky circled the desk, watching the particles of dust floating in the cold white light that came down from above. He stopped beside Tinsley, observing the names on the list. Some of them he didn’t recognize. Some of them he recognized as Tinsley’s past clients. Ricky’s eyes narrowed when he spotted his own name toward the bottom of the list. Tinsley’s pen stopped a few names above, and scratched a wet red line.

The fear spiked through Ricky’s heart. He couldn’t have Tinsley cross his name off. He couldn’t. It would be the end of everything. He grabbed hold of Tinsley’s wrist, but it was cold and hard and kept moving downward, scratching out the next name, only four above Ricky.

“Tinsley, stop.” Ricky used both hands, struggling to stop Tinsley from continuing on. He may as well have been trying to stop a ship from sailing with nothing but his hands. “Tinsley, stop! Don’t!” He fought to pry Tinsley’s fingers loose, to get the pen away. His heart hammered in his throat. “Don’t fucking- Stop it! STOP!”

In a sudden flurry of movement Tinsley dropped the pen and paper, getting to his feet, grabbing hold of Ricky by his throat with one stone hand, and his blind eyes looked right into Ricky’s, and Ricky woke up with a terrified cry, sweating, shaking, his eyes wide as he stared at the ceiling. He could almost see those milky white eyes still staring back at him, full of enough fury and rage to rival the gods.

Ricky scrambled to turn on his bedside lamp, getting out of bed, standing in the middle of the room, hugging himself. He very rarely dreamed, and couldn't remember the last time he had dreamed so vividly. It had him in a daze, and this daze didn't lift, not until he was in the station and at his desk and had no option but to return to reality at the sound of the chief speaking to him.

"Ricky. A word."

Ricky glanced up from his work, staring at the chief across the desks. "Huh?"

"A word. In my office."

Ricky checked his shirt and tie; it was all neat and tidy. He hadn't wanted to be bothered by the chief today. Yet he was being bothered anyway, it seemed. The chief was staring at him with a strange look on his face. Ricky got to his feet, ignoring the few curious glances he got from his coworkers as he made his way through the desks to the chief's office.

Once he stepped inside, the chief closed the door behind him.

"Now, Ricky. I have some bad news."

Ricky raised an eyebrow. He wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Oh?"

"I think you should have a seat."

Ricky took the seat that was offered to him. He stayed silent as the chief circled the desk to sit in his own chair. The silence continued. Ricky didn't like it. He didn't like anything about the situation he was currently in. He waited. The chief pursed his lips, spinning his chair slowly from side to side. Then he said: “I’m gonna have to suspend you.”

Ricky's brows shot up. "...You're gonna have to what?"

"Suspend you. From duty."

"What?!" Ricky blinked. He felt like he'd been slapped. "Why?"

“We’ve had numerous complaints from people about harassment.”

"People?" Ricky's heart was pounding in his chest. "What people?"

"A prominent lawyer. And a prominent philanthropist. They've threatened to sue. For harassment."

“Harassment?! I’m-” Ricky stared at him blankly for a moment before rebooting with ten times the vehemence than before. “I’m investigating! A case!”

“It’s not a case." The chief seemed a little apologetic, at least. "It’s not official and hasn’t been permitted by any of your superiors. Unfortunately that didn't slip by the notice of one of the people who submitted a complaint.”

"It was Tinsley, wasn't it? It was Tinsley and Holly Horsley. I'm not fucking stupid."

"They said you've been bothering them, and I have no reason to doubt them, Ricky." His voice dropped to a mutter. "And not enough money in the world to challenge them."

“No. No, that’s bullshit!” Ricky got to his feet so suddenly his chair went skidding backwards. “I’m onto something big! Really big! You have to let me keep going!”

“Ricky…” A weary sigh. “Do you even have any evidence? Any hard evidence?”

Ricky straightened up, his brows still drawn together in an indignant glare. “I- I have stuff.”

“What stuff? Show me.”

“I have- I just-” He waved his hands as if trying to conjure evidence from thin air, which was exactly what he was doing. “There’s connections. There’s weird connections between all of them. It’s not all a coincidence!”

“You see, it _is_ all a coincidence if you don’t have evidence to prove otherwise!”

“Listen.” Ricky moved forwards, pressing his hands to the desk, his eyes serious. “The slimy son of a bitch lawyer has said to me, directly, that he’s hiding things. The judge refuses to talk to me about my suspicions. The therapist who treats the people Tinsley prosecutes is terrified of speaking to me about him. The people who Tinsley has prosecuted over the years have the most _basic_ knowledge of the crimes they’ve apparently committed, and-”

“I’m sorry, Ricky, but the evidence works out fair and square in all of Cecile Tinsley’s cases. He’s just a good lawyer. And anyway, what are you even proposing?”

“That those people are covering for someone! I don’t know! Someone else is murdering these men and getting those people to cover so that they can keep on doing so!”

The chief stared at him in disbelieving silence. “Ricky, you’re suspended from duty.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“You’re going to have to give me your weaponry and your badge and ID. Now.”

Ricky’s eyes were round, his face frozen. “Why. Why.”

“You need a break. You need to wind down.” He gave the desk a tap. “Only for a month.”

Ricky shook his head, slowly at first, before speeding up. “No. No, you know what? Fuck you. I quit. Fuck you.” He dumped his things on the chief’s desk one by one, each with more attitude than before, gun, badge, radio, yanking them off his belt with vigor. “I quit. I’m resigning. I don’t care.”

“Okay, Ricky, look, hold on a second-”

“You’re gonna regret not having me around.” Ricky stopped at the door, hands on his hips. “The dynamic in this place is gonna be completely off now. You’ll have to find some new office eye candy, and I’ll tell you something, the only guy you’ll be able to find that’s hotter than me in a uniform will be in the strip club down the road.”

“Ricky, for God’s sake.”

“And you know what?” Ricky stabbed a finger at the floor. “I’m keeping my uniform, because I use it for roleplaying sometimes. So suck on that.”

He left abruptly, leaving his random bits and pieces on his desk. There was nothing of value there anyway. He stormed outside, stopping beside the payphone. He shoved a few coins into the slot and dialed Lucy. She answered after a few rings with a curious hello. Ricky closed his eyes, sighing heavily, and he leaned against the payphone, as if deflated.

“Mom, I need a job.”

Lucy hired him. Why shouldn't she? He had a degree in investigative journalism and had gotten much further into the corruption of the legal system than she ever had. In their first brief meeting, minutes later, she revealed to him the person who had submitted the audio of Tinsley and Holly to her.

"Banjo?" Ricky inclined his head; the name seemed familiar. "Who's Banjo?"

"Horsley's accountant. He thinks that there's something off about the entire way of things in that house." She went quiet. "And he has some interesting opinions on that lawyer."

"He's not the only one," said Ricky, getting to his feet. "I'm going to talk to people who've worked with Tinsley. I'll let you know what I find."

First was Doctor Fear, who was surprisingly compliant. He expressed his concerns about Tinsley, and also revealed that he had been Tinsley's past therapist. He ended their hurried conversation by fetching a brown paper file from a filing cabinet in his office and handing it to Ricky. After the detective had left, Fear had called Holly to let her know he was quitting. Abandoning this up-and-coming mess, and going home to Germany. He didn't give her the opportunity to try and change his mind. Within a few hours, he had booked a flight and packed a case with his necessities and he would sort the rest from across the Atlantic. He just knew he had to leave.

Ricky sat in his apartment and read the file thoroughly. When he was done, he rang Lucy, his hands shaking with excitement as he spun in her office number. He hardly even greeted her, diving straight into the information from Fear's file.

“He’s a psychopath. I mean, diagnosed, medically, professionally. A high-functioning psychopath. Listen to this.” He continued pacing beside his table, the telephone cord stretching as he picked random words from the page in a way of summarizing its contents. “Diagnosed at twenty-six, which would mean four or five years ago. Multiple doctors involved, neuropsych testing, personality testing, brain scans, a lot of different interviews and going through his childhood - where it says he had an evaluation as a teenager which he never got the result of, and also a few antisocial incidents, fights in school and stuff - and it says here that he had an ‘awareness’ of always being different. Severe lack of empathy, but not entirely devoid of it. It says he has ‘cognitive empathy’, which means that he might not feel the pain of other people but he can understand that they’re in pain and react appropriately if he wants to. Complete lack of fear. His relationships require conscious effort, he doesn’t naturally click with people. Slight inability to bond with not just people but animals and like, every other living creature.” He slapped the page. “This is a goldmine, mom!”

A hesitant pause. “I don’t know if that will hold up, Ricky. I mean, that isn’t proof that he’s done something bad. It’s proof that he _could_ do something bad, but since when do we target people for that?”

“No, no, but when I find out what he’s done it’ll be invaluable to have all this shit.” He dumped the file down on the table. "I'm going to find Banjo."

* * *

"There's one hundred and one things wrong about that man. I've always known it." Banjo stood behind his office door, hidden, and Ricky stood near him. They spoke in hushed tones, despite the fact that Banjo knew Holly was out at a meeting. "He has a room here, in the house, that he stays in on random nights. Sometimes he'll shower, and other times he'll just change his clothes, but I swear it that one night I walked into the sitting room and he was burning his clothes in the fire. I only got a glimpse, though, he shouted at me to get out."

"Can you give me the dates of these visits?" Ricky searched the man's pudgy face. "Can you remember even what weeks the days were in? Anything?"

"No. No, I can only remember the last one. It was about two weeks ago, and he came in the back door, and I went down to see what was happening. I could hear him and Holly talking, but then I sneezed, and there was a scramble inside and when I knocked Holly told me to leave. Sharp. And then a few months ago, and it was on a Friday night, and I know I was leaving work late, and he passed me in the driveway, and the lighting wasn't very good but I swear to Christ he had blood on him!"

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because last night a few people came over - like Doctor Fear, and Francesca, and Tinsley, and the Mayor too - and they were in the living room for over an hour and I know it was because of me! I think one of them knows I gave the recording to your mother! I'm terrified for my life, I swear." He was stumbling over his words, eyes wide with fear. "And there's more, there's more. Every few months Holly makes a payment to someone coming out of prison, and it's an enormous amount of money, and it's always the people who had been charged with the murders in Tinsley's cases! You see what I'm getting at, don't you? You see why I'm frightened out of my wits?"

Ricky's face was hard. "Where's Tinsley's room."

Banjo blinked, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "What?"

"Where's Tinsley's room. In this house."

"I can't-"

"Banjo. If you're telling me what I think you're telling me, then I need to find better evidence." His voice went lower, serious. "Where's his room."

He followed the directions Banjo gave him, sneaking through the dark corridors of the house, avoiding maids and minders and toddlers alike, fiercely determined. When he found the room he slipped in and closed the door silently behind him. It was a bare space; a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, an empty fireplace, a large window, not much decoration. He made a beeline for the desk. Two of the three drawers were crammed with junk. The third was locked.

Ricky knelt down in front of it, fidgeting with the lock, trying to force one of his own keys into it, just to get a grip to wrench it one way or the other. He gave up, taking the poker from the blocked-off fireplace. He jammed the end into the side of the drawer and tried to pry it open, shoving at it, glaring at the surprisingly sturdy desk. The wood of the drawer gave, but it didn't open - a noticeable chunk of wood splintered off the side. Ricky's heart dropped. He tried to shove the poker in further, his palms slick with sweat, but went quiet at the sound of voices down the corridor; one with a British accent, and the other lower, and all-too-familiar.

After a panic to wrench the poker from the drawer and place it back in the grate Ricky scrambled under the bed, as far in as he could, pressed against the wall. He pressed his lips in a line to try and keep his shaking breaths quiet as the door to the room opened, and in stepped a pair of smart leather shoes at the end of an equally smart suit. Holly followed in her low heels. They were mid-conversation, but quickly went quiet. Both of them were angled towards the desk. Tinsley's voice was immediately suspicious, if a tad panicked.

"Who's in the house."

"Only the children, I think." Holly crossed the room, stopping in front of the desk. "It must have been one of them. You know how they get when something is locked away."

"Do you really think a child would be strong enough to do that to a wooden desk?" Tinsley followed her, standing beside her. "If it was a child, then it was a group of them. Or it wasn't a child at all."

Holly noted the distracted tone. "You still think it's Banjo?"

"It has to be. Him or Fear. A pair of cowards." He spat.

"Please don't do that," said Holly in disapproval. "It's quite unpleasant."

"I want to talk to the kids. Ask them if they were in here."

"I'll go talk to them. They find you frightening."

He didn't seem to bothered with this. "Yeah. Fine."

Ricky, chin pressed to the dusty wooden floor, watched Tinsley's legs pace back and forth in front of the desk. Then the man grumbled and took a bunch of keys from his back pocket, selecting a small one, and he opened the drawer. He crouched down to do so; Ricky could see his hands, his arms, but thankfully not his face. From the drawer came a bunch of papers in a plastic pocket. Tinsley wandered to the window, flicking through them, as if counting them, and the sound of rustling paper hid the soft sound of Ricky slipping from under the bed, staying low, his eyes fixed on the back of Tinsley's head, a sudden animal instinct burning in his chest. Tinsley's reflection in the window was translucent, ghostly, but his eyes were bright as they landed on Ricky's, widening in alarm, his arms falling back to his sides in surprise.

By the time he turned Ricky had closed the space between them, and he drove a shoulder into Tinsley's chest, slamming him back against the window; Tinsley cursed as the sill dug into his back, his shoes sliding on the wooden floor. Ricky took him by the tie and yanked him down, headbutting him hard on the bridge of his nose, and Tinsley stumbled aside to one knee, blinded by the force of the blow. Yet he still didn't call for help. Ricky didn't like that; it meant he wasn't intending on needing any. The pages had scattered across the floor. Ricky hesitated, wondering if he'd have time to gather them up before Tinsley recovered from his daze. If he even _was_ dazed. His nose was bleeding freely - it was smeared across his mouth and chin, dripping down towards his throat - but his eyes were sharp. When he smiled, his teeth were stained with red.

"God, you're perfect."

Ricky stared at him. "What the hell are you talking about."

"Is this the first time you've ever drawn blood on another person?"

Ricky swallowed. It was. His face must have said so, because Tinsley grinned.

"You handled it like a champ, Ricky. Not many people are so willing to do what you just did. Violence doesn't come so naturally to everyone."

Ricky ignored him, despite the flutter in his chest. Tinsley went to stand up, but Ricky was swift to stop him from doing so, taking the poker from the fire beside them and pressing the pointed end into the side of Tinsley's neck. Tinsley raised an eyebrow.

"It's too blunt to stab me with."

"I know. But I can break your face open with it."

Tinsley inclined his head. He was still smiling. "So you could."

Ricky tugged his tie off over his head, keeping the poker trained on Tinsley. Then he moved behind the lawyer and used his tie to cuff his wrists before binding them to the grating of the fireplace. Tinsley was still smiling, and his breath on Ricky's mouth smelled bloody.

"C'mon, Ricky. Lock that door and me and you can have a little fun."

Ricky found himself smiling in return, although closer to a sneer than a true smile. "I said it before, I'll say it again. In your dreams."

"Oh, and I do dream of it." He tried to move forwards, but Ricky kept him down with his hands on his shoulders, their noses almost touching. "And in my dreams I goddamn ruin you. God, for _hours."_

Ricky shoved him back flat on the floor, a hand pressed to his chest. "You're fucking insane."

Tinsley laughed, maneuvering himself so that he was kneeling, his wrists still bound in front of him. "Come on, Ricky. Don't be so heartless. Give me a kiss goodbye, at least."

Ricky searched his eyes, and they were dead but burning, having finally found something to spark them to life. Up close, they were quite pretty, a warm light brown, with a fringe of long soft lashes. The flow of blood from Tinsley's nose had slowed somewhat, only slight trickles running now, gleaming on his lips. Ricky didn't care; he leaned in and kissed him hard, hard enough to bruise. He wanted to bruise him, leave a lasting mark of his presence there, and Tinsley kissed him back, the grating of the fire creaking as he pulled at his restraints, fists clenched. Tinsley let his lips part, Ricky's tongue brushing his, the pressure deepening; his skin was on fire, he could feel it spreading all over him, and it was a sweet burn. He'd gladly let it reduce him to ash. When Ricky broke away Tinsley let out a soft moan, trying to follow, his bloodied lips still parted. Ricky stood up, wiping away the blood from his own mouth with his shirt sleeve. For a moment they stared at each other, and neither of them smiled. The sound of heels against the floor of the hall outside broke the air between them, and Ricky snatched up the pages and hurried to the window, pushing it open, swinging one leg out. He glanced back at Tinsley, who was still on his knees, his head hanging. Ricky continued out into the front garden and ran for his car. If he worked fast enough, that would hopefully be the last time he would see Tinsley not behind bars.

When he got home he laid out all the pages; they were non-disclosure agreements. He scanned them, heart racing in his throat, eyes unblinking. The signatures were familiar; Holly Horsley, the Mayor, Francesca Norris, Tinsley, Doctor Fear, there was a page for each of them, each signed with their names in full, although Holly and Tinsley's names were on each single page. The Mayor's promised to accept any and all settlements between Tinsley and the defense, in all cases. Francesca's, and multiple others who's names Ricky didn't recognize, included a hefty payment in return for prison time. Fear's included making false statements under oath, promising to have the defendant's in Tinsley's cases appear mentally unstable. Ricky read each one, feeling sick. _You did not see what you saw on the 13th of November. You did not see what you saw on the 6th of July. You did not see what you saw on the 4th of April._ Ricky recognized the dates; they were hardly days from when bodies were found murdered. He had been involved in some of the cases himself.

Ricky collapsed into a chair, pressing a hand to his mouth. Tinsley's talk about death and who deserves it. His lecturer's assumption that he had harmed someone. His room in Holly's house, his burning of his clothes, his habit of popping in and showering and changing in the middle of the night. His tendency to represent murdered men who turn out to have been pedophiles. His long-time friendship with Holly, who's own husband had been murdered due to his involvement with a child trafficking ring hardly a year ago. Ricky went back to the NDAs, flicking right back to the oldest-looking one.

It was signed by only Holly, Tinsley, and the Mayor. It was dated the same day Holly had reported her husband murdered.

Ricky knew it instantly. He had always known it, in a way. Tinsley was a murderer. Tinsley was murdering these people and then representing them posthumously. Holly was paying people to play the defense and take jail time for him. The Mayor was settling their cases with ease. Tinsley was a killer. Ricky had touched death, he had kissed death. He wondered how many times Tinsley had thought of killing him. He remembered the strange look on Tinsley's face after their date, the unsettling intensity. It could have happened then. It could have happened any time they were alone together. Yet it hadn't.

There was the sound of screeching car tires from outside, making Ricky bolt upright. He scrambled to the window, looking down at the road. Someone was crossing towards the apartment building with quick strides, a tall slim someone. He was coming up the steps. He looked up towards Ricky's window, and Ricky saw a flash of glasses in the streetlight. Ricky immediately backed away from the window, sitting on the arm of the couch. He stared at the phone. He could call the police. Or he could wait and find out for definite first. He could take Tinsley in a fight, he already had only hours earlier. He could apprehend him himself. He was sure of it.

When there was a knock on the door, Ricky opened it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hannah montana transition music" oh oh ohhh
> 
> i hope this made sense lmao for those of u who follow me on tumblr y'all might know i've kinda lost motivation for this BUT i already have the last chapter largely written so that'll be out v soon ! maybe even tomorrow :0


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